


Some Reassembly Required

by hipsterariel



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst and Feels, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Rape/Non-con, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Future Fic, Gallavich, Getting Back Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slow Burn, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, post 5x12, season 6 mostly never happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 109,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipsterariel/pseuds/hipsterariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SEASON 6 NEVER HAPPENED.</p><p>With no physical evidence to link him to the attempted murder of Sammi, Mickey was released from jail. But being in the can had provided him with a welcome respite from Ian Gallagher and everything that reminded him of their breakup. So Mickey got himself thrown back into big boy prison, for twenty four months, fourteen with good behaviour - a self imposed sabbatical from the annoying redhead that he definitely isn't still in love with. No fucking way.</p><p>Ian has spent the past fourteen months slowly getting used to his medication, and learning how to manage his bipolar disorder.  He has a new boyfriend but he can't get a certain black-haired, blue-eyed thug out of his mind.</p><p>When Mickey is released from prison, the world of the Southside that was intent on keeping them apart, begins to slowly push them back together. Can they make it work this time or are they fucked for life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nostalgia and Nothingness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These memories weren’t just familiar reminders anymore, they felt final. Completed. Because there wouldn’t be anymore new memories made of him and Ian now - just old ones. Old memories that were too painful to think about, but would languish and fade from existence if they weren’t relived. Mickey decided this must be what people meant when they talked about nostalgia. He didn’t like it.

Mickey Milkovich glanced at the calendar Svetlana had affixed to the fridge. The current date or the time of the year had never really meant much to Mickey before. Time had always been differentiated by stints in and out of juvie, or his dad’s incarcerations and release. He always knew what day of the week it was, because it was important to remember when a drug or arms deal was going down, but there was rarely anything to look forward to living on the Southside; life was hard, everyday was a struggle and bills would never be paid on time anyway, so keeping a calendar in eyeshot never interested him. But with Yev around, time and dates were important now; birthdays, vaccinations and doctor’s appointments were penned in, punctuating the calendar with a random spattering of red circles. Like freckles on pale skin. Mickey sighed. 

The calendar was also useful in keeping tabs on the amount of time that had passed since he’d last seen Ian Fucking Gallagher.

It was April.

Mickey counted backwards on his hands. Fourteen months. It had been fourteen months since he’d had his heart ripped out and discarded, like garbage, on the front steps of that house, that fucking clown car of a house full of Gallaghers. And it had been fourteen months since he had seen Ian Fucking Gallagher. It would have been twenty four months, but turns out Mickey Milkovich was a model prisoner; months shaved off his sentence and released early on parole. Mickey was surprised how easy it had been to avoid seeing Ian after that day. For once, life had thrown some good fortune his way - being arrested for the attempted murder of that Sammi bitch, almost immediately afterwards. Being thrown into County had provided a welcome distraction to the gnawing, relentless hurt, so immediate and intense, that threatened to consume him. He didn’t have to worry about accidentally bumping into Ian in the joint. He should have fucking confessed. He would have, if he hadn’t been worried about implicating Debbie Gallagher. If Ian had been his favourite Gallagher, Debbie was probably a distant second. But that Sammi bitch had chased Mickey down the street, with guns literally blazing, and there were witnesses. So the police decided this was a more pressing concern than an alleged attempted murder, for which there was no evidence and no witnesses. Whatsmore, Mickey had an alibi. Debbie Gallagher had had his back.

 

And so it was, after a two week stint in County, he had been released back into the neglectful and uncaring arms of the Southside. Back to his surly wife and his shitty, crumbling house, where Mickey knew that Ian Gallagher’s clothes still adorned his floor, where his bed still smelled of his former boyfriend, and strands of red hair still clung to the grimy white surfaces of the bathroom . Back into the world of Ian Gallagher and every fucking thing that reminded Mickey of that beautiful redhead.

He remembered the agonising walk back to his house from the El, after his release. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about Ian. It was as though the walls he’d built between his heart and his head had been suddenly knocked down. His mind was a flurry of thoughts of Ian, swirling around inside his head like a tornado, picking up debris with each spiralling gust, gaining momentum and leaving destruction in its wake. He thought about the last two times he had been released from juvie, Ian was there. He had waited for him. But Mickey knew that this time Ian wouldn’t be waiting for him anywhere. Everything had changed and he was on his own. Just like that. Mickey had had no say in it. He could feel his errant, anxious thoughts becoming churning nausea in his stomach. With his every step on the cement he could see Ian’s face, hear his name. Ian. Ian. Ian.

He had walked straight into the Kash and Grab. He told himself that it was because he was thirsty and needed a soda. He burst through the door, the bell ringing, his eyes adjusting from the dreary and overcast Chicago daylight, to the artificial and vaguely yellow lighting of the convenience store. The sweet smell of candy and slowly rotting fruit, the stale tepid air which somehow felt warm and cool at the same time, the hum of the refrigerators, the sound of his shoes on the scuffed and grubby linoleum floor - this was really where it had all begun. Where he’d first made proper eye contact with Ian, where they had started falling in love, where they had first fucked face to face. Memories of himself and Ian fucking in the cool room flooded his mind and he felt a boner growing in his pants. Something felt different though. These memories weren’t just familiar reminders anymore, they felt final. Completed. Because there wouldn’t be anymore new memories made of him and Ian now - just old ones. Old memories that were too painful to think about, but would languish and fade from existence if they weren’t relived. Mickey decided this must be what people meant when they talked about nostalgia. He didn’t like it.

Mickey felt tears stinging behind his eyes and to his disgust he was completely hard. _What the fuck?_ He might have gone somewhere to jerk himself off, but he was thoroughly disgusted by the range and depth of his feelings, these new, confusing emotions. These tears.

“FUCK THIS FUCKING PLACE!”, he yelled to no one. He turned on his heels and exited the Kash and Grab, purposely kicking over a stand of potato chips as he left. He thought about all the things he and Ian had experienced. The fucking, the blow jobs. The kissing. He hadn’t wanted to kiss at first, for a really long time, but then when they finally did, they became good at it, great even, and Mickey dreamed about Ian’s mouth on his. He thought about his coming out in front of his father and everyone he knew. He thought about him and Ian and Yev and the sweet domesticity they had shared during the final months before Ian had been lost. He thought about all those things and decided that the gayest part of it all was this fucking broken heart. Mickey had had his heart broken by Ian Gallagher. _That’s fucking gay._

There was no way Mickey was going to live like this, surrounded by constant reminders – the people, places, the sounds, the pointless ruminating upon whether Ian too had breathed this air recently. Even the fucking oxygen reminded him of Ian! He longed to be somewhere that Ian had never been, but Ian had been all over this fucking place. Ian Gallagher was this place. Mickey spotted a cop on the corner of the street.

“Yo fuckface!” Mickey yelled at the cop. He charged at the officer and drove his fist into the cop’s stomach, violently and with purpose. Mickey, now tacit and compliant, turned around and allowed the officer to handcuff him. As he was escorted to the station in the back of the police car, where he knew he would be inevitably charged and returned to prison, he had felt something else; relief.

 

As Mickey scanned the April calendar, he decided that fourteen months was surely enough time to get over Ian Gallagher. Afterall, wasn’t drug rehab usually only seventy days? And Ian Gallagher sure as hell wasn’t a smack addiction. Mickey snorted in wry amusement at the comparison.

“You think about Orange Boy,” Svetlana spat, the words lingering in judgement as she appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, Yevgeny balanced confidently on her hip.

“Shut the fuck up, woman,” Mickey retorted, resenting the intrusion into his private thoughts.

“You are. I know as you bite lip when you think of him. You bite lip like sad, lost little boy.” Svetlana’s words stung, as they usually did. As usual, Mickey was torn between his dislike of Svetlana and something akin to awe that she somehow knew him well enough to know which buttons to press everytime she opened her mouth to speak to him. The pair had barely shared a civil conversation in their two years of ‘marriage’ - whatever their union was, loveless and involuntary on Mickey’s part - yet Svetlana seemed to know him better than almost anyone else in his life. Except Ian.

“Baby grows fast. Needs new clothes. You should provide for your son, so he can have new clothes that fit, “ she continued.

Mickey sighed and opened his wallet, carelessly tossing his last two fifty dollar bills in the direction of his wife. “For Yevgeny,” he said firmly. Mickey really didn’t mind supporting Yevgeny, but he wasn’t about to pay for Svetlana’s dates with whatever Southside lesbian she was hooking up with this week. If she wanted money for anything other than Yevgeny and their household, she was going to have to work for it. 

Work. It sounded like a strange concept to someone who had never really worked an honest day in his life, but he had a parole officer to appease now, and a kid he actually kinda liked. Mickey Milkovich needed to get a job.

 

* * * 

Ian Gallagher stepped out onto the diner floor to load up his bucket with the debris of the lunch time service. In what had now become a relentless and unchanging routine, he started at the right of the counter and made his way towards the back of the floor, row by row, scraping leftovers off dirty plates into one side of his bucket and placing cutlery, plates bowls and glasses in the other. Slowly and methodically, and without any sense of urgency whatsoever.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five tables so far today. Ian wondered how many tables he had cleared in his ten months of working at Patsy’s Pies; it felt like many thousands.

Ian had experienced enough hardship in his life to be grateful to his sister Fiona for putting him forward for this job. And to Sean, the diner manager for taking a chance on Ian. He knew that on paper, he didn’t look like an ideal candidate for any kind of job; a bipolar kid from the Southside, high school drop out, previously AWOL from the military, former lap dancer, with four months, unaccountable on paper, that he had spent holed up in his room trying to put his head back together. He didn’t look great on a resume. 

Of course, while most of that had been happening, he had completely lost the plot, cheated on his then boyfriend, made a porno, kidnapped his boyfriend’s baby and wound up in the psych ward. Ian winced as memories of the events of the last two years flashed across his mind; an horrific series of still images, still so vivid and frantic and loud.

Shuddering and pushing the painful memories aside, the same familiar and unpleasant thought crept into Ian’s mind; that despite his gratitude, he was bored. This job was boring and unchallenging and so far from how he had always imagined his life as an almost twenty year old, he felt like crying in frustration. Every shift at the diner started and ended in exactly the same way, and no matter how many tables he cleared, nothing ever changed. The only way Ian could get through each day was to divide the restaurant tables into rows and set an arbitrary goal for himself. He had always been motivated by the presence of a clear goal, real or imagined. Sometimes he aimed to clear each row of tables within a certain time period, other times he imagined he was completing an obstacle course at ROTC. Today he aimed to place the used cutlery and dishes in his bucket in the most economical way, so as to minimise the trips made back and forth to the kitchen to empty the load. If he could clear the restaurant in just three trips back to the kitchen, that would really be something.

Ian sighed. His table clearing game rarely provided enough mental stimulation to prevent his thoughts from turning back to Mickey. His Mickey. Beautiful, tough Mickey Milkovich, whom he had loved for so many years and pushed and pushed and urged to feel the same way about Ian, as Ian did about him. Mickey Milkovich who had finally succumbed to Ian in the way that Ian had longed for, only for Ian to push him away. But, why? This was Ian’s million dollar question. The question that haunted him in the small hours of the morning, and lingered in his brain like a nightmare upon wakening. _I really was out of my fucking mind._

Ian could remember every tiny detail about Mickey and the events of last summer; the way Mickey smelled of deodorant and sweat and beer, the feel of his stubble against his face when they kissed, the way Mickey would chew on his lip when Ian surprised him with affection, the blood tainted taste of their final kiss, which neither had known would be their last. Ian’s memories of Mickey were vivid and bittersweet, but somehow still felt like they happened a lifetime ago to someone else. He could remember the songs he sang to Yevgeny during his kidnapping, the pattern Yev’s poop had made in the t shirt diaper that Ian had put on him and the clothing Ian was wearing when he was finally arrested. Yet, as many hours as he had spent staring at the ceiling in his bedroom agonising over all the senseless, crazed things he had done at the height of his mania, he could not remember for the life of him, why he had pushed Mickey away.

Ian knew that Mickey was in prison. He had tried to visit him, but Mickey refused to allow Ian on his visitation list. It was Mickey’s defiance that made Ian realise the extent of the damage he had inflicted, how much he had hurt Mickey. He had expected to be added to the visitation list, and spend the hour on the receiving end of Mickey’s verbal put downs, all bravado and faux nonchalance, just like the countless other times that Mickey had used his smart mouth to conceal his feelings for Ian. But, Ian could always see the truth in Mickey’s eyes, contrary to the sounds his mouth was making. _I miss you, I need you, I love you,_ his eyes would be saying.

But not this time. This time, Mickey didn’t even want to look at him. 

Ian didn’t want to think about what had happened after he was rejected from the list. He felt himself break out into a cold sweat. His jaw tightened and a lump formed in his throat. He swallowed and forced his eyes shut to prevent himself from crying at work, if only to avoid Fiona’s well-meaning but cloying concern. 

Ian knew that kidnapping Yevgeny was wrong. Obviously, he hadn’t thought through the consequences of their spontaneous road trip, but he hadn’t meant any harm to come to Yev. For some reason, the way he threw Mickey away was worse, and his guilt consumed large quantities of everyday; when his mind wasn’t occupied, late at night while he tried to sleep, each morning when he woke up, his mind foggy and unsure, needing to be reminded that no, this wasn’t all a bad dream, it had actually happened. Maybe if he could only understand why he did it in the first place, the hurt would ease? He wondered if his memories of the pair of them would ever feel like anything other than a hot poker viciously prodding behind his eyes, in his throat. His heart. 

_Maybe there’s a pill for that?_ Ian laughed a little and shook his head grimly, bitterly amused by his own cynicism.

Ian felt his phone vibrate with a text message in his pocket. He welcomed the distraction from his Mickey thoughts, placing his bucket on a table and skillfully maneuvering his phone out of his pocket with minimal contact from his wet rubber gloves.

 _Dinner at mine tonight?_ The text from Nate read. Ian really wasn’t sure if Nate was his boyfriend or not, but they hung out together, went on dates sometimes and fucked regularly. Ian wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t feel the desire to press Nate to define their relationship status, like he had with Mickey. Maybe Ian had learned his lesson, or maybe the meds were obscuring his true feelings for Nate. Ian didn’t know anymore and he tried not to think about it. Quickly removing his thumb from his glove, Ian texted back a short, blunt reply;

_Ok, cya after work._

It was a flat, emotionless reply borne out of Ian’s reluctance to text while working. But Nate didn’t know Ian before his bipolar diagnosis so Ian’s messages so lacking in affect were usually well-received by Nate, without judgement or concern. With Nate, there was no pressure for Ian to rekindle any feelings he once had before his diet included a mood stabiliser cocktail twice daily. He didn’t have to feel guilty or frustrated if his dick took longer to get hard than it had before the drugs, or if getting himself to orgasm now was sometimes like standing on the precipice of a cliff, unable to jump. Nate had never known the person that Ian used to be, so for all he knew, Ian’s flat, stoic demeanour, and the smiles that never quite reached his eyes were completely normal. To Nate, he wasn’t the Ian Gallagher who harboured shattered dreams of becoming a marine, he was just Ian Gallagher who had quit high school and worked in a diner he didn’t like. There was no old Ian or new Ian, just Ian.

Sometimes it made him feel sad to think that the person closest to him now didn’t really know him, but he considered this his punishment for what he did to Mickey. At other times, he found it liberating not having to justify his every mood to Nate, or be looked upon with distrust if he took his meds an hour or so late. Ian didn’t feel particularly happy, but he didn’t feel much of anything these days, so maybe this mostly unchanging feeling of _okayness_ was how it was going to be for him from now on. Maybe he just had to live with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter. This will be slow burn, with a fair bit of angst and existential pondering, until things start falling into place for our two heroes. Sort of :)
> 
> \---------------------------------------------
> 
> I'm kind of late to the Shameless bandwagon - I binge watched 5 seasons on Netflix over 4-5 weeks. I jumped aboard the Gallavich train immediately, and with no forewarning for episode 5x12.. well, let's just say it was traumatic. This is my attempt to make things right again.
> 
> This fic is canon compliant upto 5x12. Let's pretend season 6 never happened - there were a couple of things from season 6 I did like and may include (no Caleb)
> 
> I know a bit about depression and anxiety, but I have no experience with bipolar disorder so I apologise if it's not represented as authentically as it could be - I tried.
> 
> I am not from the US so my spelling of certain words will be different.
> 
> I have done my best to use US terminology but some things, eg the US healthcare system, I really know nothing about so I have taken how some things are presented in the show and just run with it.


	2. Paresthesias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The magnitude of his actions on the front steps of his house all those months ago was slowly catching up to him. Ian seemed to have set in motion a series of events that were happening to him almost against his will. Breaking up with Mickey like he did was probably the worst thing he’d ever done.

Ian pressed the intercom at Nate’s Lakeview apartment and started walking up the four flights of stairs after his maybe-boyfriend buzzed him up. He had taken the El to Nate’s straight after work, not being able to face the mind-numbing two hour round trip he would have made if he’d decided to go home and change. 

Nate greeted Ian at his apartment door, eyeing him still in his work uniform. “Patsy’s Pies? Nah, I didn’t order any of those,” he joked, reaching out and pulling Ian in for a kiss. “But, if I’d known the delivery boy was so hot…” he murmured, warm breath against Ian’s lips.

Ian smiled into the kiss and, feeling a stirring in his pants, moved his hands down to fumble with the fly on Nate’s jeans. His dick seemed to be playing ball tonight, not something to be taken for granted while on his medication, and Ian didn’t want to waste his good fortune.

“Uhh.. hold that thought? I really need to finish cooking dinner..” Nate said sheepishly, his voice laced with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, I thought you’d be going home first.”

Ian rearranged himself and followed Nate into his apartment, pulling up a stool and watching Nate’s lean body as he busied himself with dinner. Ian thought that Nate’s apartment looked like something from a tv show; all large hatched windows, exposed brick walls and wooden floorboards, perfectly manicured to create the illusion of decades of history all wrapped up in an expensive, new apartment. It was the opposite of his house on the Southside, which was so old Ian wondered, without the support of their furniture, would its mouldy, stained walls one day collapse upon them.

“Beer?” Nate offered, tentatively, never sure whether it was a good idea for Ian to drink on his meds or not.

“Mmm yeah, one won’t hurt. I’ll drink it slow.. and I’ll need a glass of water,” Ian laughed humourlessly, aware that he sounded like someone’s grandpa. “There ain’t no party like an Ian Gallagher party.”

They each talked about their day as Nate continued cooking dinner. Nate was a good cook and Ian enjoyed watching him as he glided seamlessly from the bench, to the stove, oven, fridge, microwave. He seemed so at ease while cooking, his timing impeccable as each ingredient slotted seemingly perfectly into its rightful place in the process.

“I was thinking…” Nate started, as they were sitting at the dining table with their beers and their steaks. “If you got your GED, you wouldn’t have to keep working at the diner. You know, get a better job, get your license officially and maybe save up for a car….”

Ian felt irritability rising in his stomach. The sudden and familiar feeling which without his meds would have culminated in his fist pounding at the table and a dramatic exit of slammed doors and windows shuddering in their frames. Nate was nice, but he really didn’t have any idea, Ian lamented. Nate wasn’t from the Southside and his parents had quite a lot of money. He was smart, and had studied a liberal arts degree in college. His parents had helped him out with the purchasing of his apartment. Ian couldn’t imagine anyone from the Southside who managed to get into college, being afforded the luxury of studying liberal arts. No, if through some miracle you were Southside and made it to college - if you were Lip - you would take a course that would guarantee you some serious cash. Sure, Ian could get his GED, but he would need many years worth of promotions before he’d be able to stop funneling all his money back into the Gallagher household, helping Fiona to raise Debbie, Carl and Liam, doing the work of their absent, incompetent parents. He didn’t see a car in his future anytime soon, unless Carl stole one.

He took a deep breath and felt the emotion dissipate into one of mild irritation. “Yeah, sure.. I’ll buy a car, maybe a house too,” he replied bitterly, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Unable, or unwilling to pick up on Ian’s annoyance, Nate continued, “Well I just thought, since you’re kinda over working at the diner… I mean, it’s not really a career and you’re so intelligent, you could be doing so many other things.”

Ian really did not want to be having this conversation. Perhaps Nate hadn’t known Ian for long enough to realise how stubborn he was, or to know that Ian did things in his own way in his own time. Trying to talk him into something by subtly dropping hints was not going to work - would never work - on Ian Gallagher. 

Ian shrugged. “The diner is fine, most of the time.” This was a lie, of course. But Ian had no idea what else he could be doing, what else he even wanted to do. The person who had dreamed of joining the army was long gone, lost along with the dreams he’d once had for his life. 

Nate took Ian’s sudden brooding silence as his cue to change the subject of conversation. They talked over their dinner about safe topics like Nate’s day at work, movies, tv shows and plans for the weekend.

Finishing his beer, Ian stood up from the table and beckoned Nate towards him with a quick, upward nod of his head. “Come ‘ere”, he said, hoping to finish what he had attempted to start in the doorway of the apartment when he had arrived.

Nate obliged, moving towards Ian, his lips forming a knowing smirk.

Ian grabbed Nate at the back of his neck and pulled his lips towards his. “You’re a good cook, you know,” he breathed with a quiet laugh, “that was some real nice meat.” He pressed their mouths together, Ian’s tongue darting inside Nate’s, tasting beer, tasting him. 

Nate made a sound in the back of his throat as Ian started unzipping Nate’s jeans for the second time, as they fumbled and pushed their way to his bed.

* * *

Ian lay with one arm under his head, staring at the ceiling, with Nate lying next to him sweaty and breathless. 

“Wow,” Nate breathed, rolling over onto his side and reaching an arm out to caress Ian’s chest. “You’re so fucking amazing.”

Ian smiled and placed his right hand over Nate’s, playing with his fingers. Nate’s hands were warm and the skin was soft, uncalloused. Delicate, almost. Ian was sure Nate’s hands had never formed fists, never having connected with a jaw bone or pummelled into a wall in frustration. Nate’s hands had been used for writing and using the computer and piano lessons, not for self defence, to teach someone a lesson, or prove a point. _His hands are different than Southside hands._

Nate cleared his throat a little, and Ian knew he was steadying himself to say something, ask something. 

“So I was wondering..” Nate began. Ian felt a slight sinking feeling in his stomach, hoping to avoid a repeat of the conversation from an hour ago. “It’s my sister’s birthday in two weeks. She'll be 21, so we’re having a dinner for her… just me, my sis, my brother and our parents. I’d love it if you came.”

“Uh-” Ian stammered, taken by surprise. “Right.” He tried to think, but couldn’t remember ever being invited to a family dinner that didn’t involve his own family. There was something else too, another feeling, another thought he couldn’t quite latch onto. His medication made it difficult to identify feelings sometimes. When he had first started taking it, he had felt almost completely numb. He knew what feelings he should have felt, but it had been almost impossible to elicit an emotional response to anything. But gradually, after a few months he had begun to feel subtle pangs of emotion rising and resurfacing from deep within him, like a limb had fallen asleep and was slowly waking itself up, inch by inch.

“I want you to meet my family… get to know them,” Nate continued. “I know they would really like you. Because I really like you.” Nate pressed kisses over Ian’s shoulder, his lips warm and soft.

Ian shut his eyes to concentrate on the strange emotion that was floating around inside him ominously, bobbing up and down, taunting him and threatening to flutter away and reappear at a later time, with a vengeance. 

_He wants me to meet his family. But Mickey was my family. This feels wrong._

There it was. Guilt. Ian felt slightly ill. For four years, Ian had been convinced that he and Mickey would be together forever. They'd endured so much together that it seemed inconceivable to Ian, that they wouldn't just keep finding their way back to each other. It wasn’t just a teenage fantasy held together by naivety and hormones and wishful thinking. It was real and it was all he had wanted, all he had been able to think about from the day he showed up to Mickey’s house with the tyre iron, until the Lithium. He had been willing to take whatever Mickey had been able to share with him, slowly taking more and more each time Mickey opened himself up. Ian had wanted nothing more than to be a family with Mickey and Yev. Mickey, Ian and Yev. Yev and his two dads, learning and growing together to become the fathers neither Mickey or Ian had ever had. And for a few months, before Ian’s breakdown, that is what they had been - a family. Equal parts unconventional and dysfunctional, but a family no less. Being invited to someone else’s family dinner seemed like a betrayal. 

“Okay, sure,” Ian agreed, accepting Nate’s invitation in spite of himself. “Sounds like fun.” He kissed Nate’s forehead and then turned away from him onto his side, closing his eyes.

Ian’s head filled with frantic thoughts about Mickey’s prison visitation list. If Mickey had added him to it, would he still be here lying in another man’s bed, in his expensive apartment, being invited to family dinners? If he had just been able to see Mickey in prison - apologise, explain - would he be mulling over an introduction to someone else’s family? A new family. A family completely separate from Mickey Milkovich. A family that hadn’t even heard of Mickey Milkovich. 

Could something as simple as his name on a visitation list completely change his life? It seemed absurd. The magnitude of his actions on the front steps of his house all those months ago was slowly catching up to him. Ian seemed to have set in motion a series of events that were happening to him almost against his will. Breaking up with Mickey like he did was probably the worst thing he’d ever done. But it was the list. It all came down to the list. If his name had been on it, Ian could have kept visiting Mickey until he gradually wore him down and he forgave him. Mickey would be released from prison and they would, more likely than not, get back together.

But Ian hadn’t been able to talk to Mickey in over a year. _A year_. He knew where Mickey was; he could have walked past the prison everyday if he had wanted to. But he would never have been able to talk to him, all because of one useless piece of paper. And now Ian was involved with someone else, and pretty sure that Mickey hated him, the likelihood of the two of them ever getting back together seemingly slipping further away by the day, one dinner date at a time.

Ian had started dating Nate because he was nice and friendly and cute and Ian had been so incredibly lonely back then. He’d really needed someone. But as he laid naked in this unfamiliar bed with its stiff white sheets that smelled like soap and someone else’s life, the hairs on his body stood on end. Suddenly, he had never felt more alone.

“You make me happy, I just wanted you to know that,” Nate offered.

Ian pretended to be asleep.

 

* * *

Mickey grabbed his coat and slammed the front door of his house, quickly descending the steps and jumping the chain link fence, out onto the street. He wasn’t as angry as his exit from the house would suggest. Or maybe he was? All he knew is he needed to make a normal Mickey Milkovich style exit from the house, to avoid arousing Svetlana’s suspicion. He couldn’t be bothered with her eyerolls or her blunt, accusatory statements that were usually so accurate he couldn’t convincingly refute them. He’d let her think he was going out to fuck someone up, or collect on some debts or some shit.

It had been raining and there was a slight chill in the air, and Mickey’s footsteps made a wet, crunching sound on the damp pavement, small splashes from shallow puddles jumping up and lapping at the bottoms of his jeans. He would have to take the long way to avoid walking past the Gallagher house. There was no way in hell he was going walk past that house and risk seeing any of those fucking Gallaghers. Not tonight, and hopefully not in the foreseeable future, either. Truthfully, he was scared of how he’d react if he had to pass that house, with all its fond memories of Ian suddenly nullified, impotent, buried beneath the searing memory of the second worst thing that had ever happened to him.

He passed under the El, where some teenagers were smoking weed on the other side of the street. They looked up briefly from their conversation and glanced at Mickey with nothing more than idle curiosity. Uninterested, they went back to minding their own business.

“What the FUCK are you looking at, huh?” Mickey yelled. “Fuck off!”

He knew that the kids posed no threat, that they had barely even looked at him but he was feeling extremely defensive. He felt preyed upon and conspicuous, as though everyone knew where he was headed, what it was he was about to go and do. He was barely even admitting his plans to himself, but his anxiousness was working hard to convince him that he’d soon be the talk of Southside - if he wasn’t already - the subject of rumours and the butt of jokes wherever he went in this filthy neighbourhood; Mickey Milkovich running around with his tail between his legs desperately trying to forget Ian Gallagher.

Mickey glanced at his watch and slowed down his pace. Adrenaline was fueling his every step, his gait becoming more purposeful and eager than he had intended and certainly more eager than he would care to admit. He didn’t want to rush. There was no way he was going to be early for this shit. No way was Mickey Milkovich going to stand around waiting like some eager little bitch. He’d be fashionably late, whatever that was. Or maybe just late. But not so late that he’d blow it and have to go through the effort of setting this up again.

The traffic grew heavier as he moved from the residential streets to grimy rows of pawn shops, convenience stores, and bars. Headlights from oncoming traffic illuminated him, drawing attention to him, pointing, singling him out like a spotlight, and then returning him to the safety of the shadows as they travelled past. Drawing closer to The Alibi, he yanked his hood up over his head, not daring to look towards the entrance. Frank was probably in there, always fucked up and out of it but still with the uncanny ability to notice things that would be better left unseen. If not Frank, then Lip -- sitting at the bar drowning his sorrows at the sheer indignity of being born a fucking genius and rewarded with a free ride to college, a free ticket out of this shithole if he wasn’t too stupid to see it.

Almost there. He slowed down again, as he turned into a side street that smelled even more strongly of piss and shit and dirt than was usual for the Southside. He slowed down his gait once more and descended into a swagger. The swagger that said he had better things to do, that he was already bored. He entered the alleyway, dimly illuminated by the lights from second floor windows, passing lines of garbage bins overflowing with refuse, rank and festering. 

There he was, Mickey saw him. He flicked the cigarette from his fingers, which he had only started so he could toss it away like he didn’t give a shit. From the dim light, Mickey could see that he was as pretty in real life as he had been in his profile picture. This was a relief. If he was going to let some random get up in him, then he’d better be pretty, at the very least.

“Come on then,” Mickey demanded like he hadn’t just arrived - as if he’d been waiting around for hours. Mickey unbelted and unzipped his jeans, as the guy hesitantly stepped towards him, following suit.

Mickey stood with his back to the stranger, next to a putrid garbage bin, with his left hand steadying himself against the wall. The guy spat on his hand and started working wet fingers into Mickey’s arse. One, two, three fingers. Mickey made a grunting sound to signify he was ready for him. The guy drove his cock slowly into Mickey and started thrusting, gradually increasing his speed and intensity as Mickey’s body responded. He was hitting the right spot and it felt good, really good, but Mickey kept quiet, unwilling to reveal his pleasure. _No need to give this fucking fairy an ego boost._

The guy started thrusting harder still and Mickey felt his hips start to quiver. Knowing they were both going to come soon, Mickey took his dick in his free hand and started jerking himself off. The guy gave one final thrust and grunted, with Mickey ejaculating all over the wall and a little bit on his shoes.

Mickey stood for a few seconds staring at the dark concrete beneath his feet, one hand still holding him against the wall, zipping himself up with the other. 

“Alright, get the fuck outta here!” he half-yelled at the guy. He still hadn’t bothered to turn around, not wanting to make eye contact, not wanting to remember what this little bitch looked like. And certainly not wanting to be remembered himself. The pretty boy scurried off, suddenly frightened, like he’d only just now realised the vulnerability of being a gay man alone in a dark alley on the Southside.

A sick, hollow feeling was mounting in Mickey’s stomach. This was new. Not hunger exactly, but a definite feeling that something was lacking. Emptiness. Was it something he’d eaten? No, it wasn’t that. The random hookup had felt really good but something just wasn’t right. He chewed on his bottom lip, searching for the words to explain this feeling to himself. He slumped down against the wall, squatting and lighting a cigarette. Mickey yearned for something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He wanted to kiss someone’s nose, or look into someone’s eyes or fucking cuddle or some shit. But he didn’t want to do these things with just anyone - certainly not that scared little faggot.

He stared up at the thin strip of sky visible in the narrow gap between buildings in the alley. The alleyway suddenly felt claustrophobic and unfriendly, its cold brick walls baring down on him, menacing and suffocating, offering him no comfort. His gaze remained fixated on the dark, night sky, as though if he stared long enough, imploringly enough, he’d find answers.

“Ahh for fucksake,” he muttered, shaking his head as the realisation began to dawn on him. The answer didn’t come to him all at once, but in pieces rather, like someone showing him snapshots of his life one at a time; a jigsaw puzzle slowly being put together to reveal its truth. Green eyes. Strands of red hair falling into that beautiful face. Its soft features, pale skin and pink lips. Those large confident hands. Striped tshirts and plaid shirts. That fucking tattoo that had just appeared one day.

Ian. It was Ian that Mickey longed to kiss and hold and hear how much he liked him and to begrudgingly admit that he liked Ian the same. He wanted to laugh at Ian’s stupid jokes and be tickled by him, even though he mostly hated being tickled and wouldn’t tolerate it from anyone else in the world, and then he wanted to fuck some more and then do all that kissing and cuddling all over again, until they fell asleep in each other's arms. But instead, he was sitting in this cold, rancid alleyway, having just been fucked by a nameless stranger, hating himself, the world and everybody in it.

Intimacy. Mickey realised what it was he was missing. It was intimacy.

When he’d first met Ian Gallagher, he barely even knew what the word meant, would never have had a reason to ever say it, and certainly couldn’t spell it. But Ian had changed him. All those years spent fucking in secret, behind shelves, in basements and under bleachers, with Ian prodding and pushing Mickey to open up to him emotionally, picking at his wounds and his scars, peeking at what was underneath and liking it, slowly changing him. Ian had changed Mickey into someone who not only knew what intimacy was, but someone who enjoyed it, noticed when it was gone and missed it. Craved it, even. And then Ian had left him, god only knows why, and Mickey didn’t know how to be this version of himself - this new Mickey - without him. Or if he even wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Ian's new boyfriend. He has some quirks of his own but he's mostly okay - of course he is no Mickey Milkovich.
> 
> I really enjoyed writing Mickey trying to find love in an alley way!
> 
> I thought about the 5x12 break up scene and I think that after a few months they would have worked through their problems and Ian would have come out the other side relatively stable and they would have ended back together. But Sammi obviously got in the way of that. I wanted to write something quite angsty and I think it will work better with their story picking up after a year or two. I liked the idea of Ian trying to get on Mickey's visitation list and Mickey not allowing it because Mickey's heart would have been broken and I imagine him not knowing how to deal with that feeling at all, and thus lashing out.
> 
> Also I liked Ian having the realisation that he set in motion something he had no control over ultimately (the list rejection), because I don't think he deals well with a loss of control.


	3. Infinite Possibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “FUCK IAN GALLAGHER,” Mickey screamed into the night. Fuck him. His voice echoed around the decaying walls and into the air, a chorus of anonymous supporters agreeing with him, repeating his own words back to him in moral support. Fuck Ian Gallagher. Fuck Ian Gallagher. Fuck Ian Gallagher.

The dinner with Nate’s family had gone over okay. As well as to be expected, anyway, given the argument that Ian and Nate had had before it. Nate’s parents and his siblings were nice, friendly. They were happy and polite and they knew which wine to order and how they liked their steaks and which cutlery to use for every course. They wore clothes that were theirs, that had always been theirs - no fraying hand-me-downs, faded and pilled through years of being worn and washed and dried and inherited. They had asked Ian questions and had listened to his answers. They were attentive. And when Ian didn’t fill in the blanks, even though he desperately wanted to, their conversation moved to other subjects. They didn’t swear and they waited for each other to finish talking before they added to the conversation. Ian hadn’t detected a hint of world-weariness behind their eyes. They were the opposite of the Gallagher family, and about as far from Southside as a group of people could possibly be.

But Ian was angry at Nate. So angry. He knew it would be better if he had put their argument behind him and just played nice, but he couldn’t. He wanted to, but it just wasn’t possible. Ian had always had trouble swallowing his anger; he would become sullen and quiet, the muscles in his jaw tight and clenched, his chin jutting out in a display of subtle defiance. His family knew that expression well. But it was the first time that Nate had experienced the stonewall of Ian’s angry face. 

He was perfectly friendly and pleasant towards Nate’s parents and siblings, it was impossible not to be. But he could barely stand to even look at Nate. His maybe-boyfriend had responded with desperate displays of affection; his hand underneath the table, gently rubbing Ian’s leg in an attempt to soothe him, an arm draped around his shoulders, his waist. But Ian’s annoyance was immovable. He probably would have had a horrible night, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Nate’s family were so fucking perfect.

* * *

When Ian had buzzed the intercom at Nate’s apartment earlier that evening, he still hadn’t been sure he was even going to show up to this dinner. He had considering bailing on the walk from his house to the El, at several points while on the El, walking from the El to Nate’s apartment, while waiting for Nate to buzz him up, and finally on the drive over to the restaurant.

Ian didn’t really have anything to wear, but he knew that Lip would be at home that evening so he had asked him to bring some shirts with him. Nice shirts. Like the ones that Amanda had bought him. Ian had chosen the only shirt of Lip’s that had actually fit him - he had finally completely outgrown Lip’s clothes. Even so, he thought he looked alright in this borrowed shirt. He threw his old grey jacket on over the top, partly because it was cool outside, and because his jacket was so familiar and so very much him. Like an old friend that had been through everything with him; it was a constant, something to remind him who he was, while he peered into the unfamiliar world of Nate’s family. 

He’d jogged down the stairs to the kitchen, where Fiona was cooking dinner, Debbie sitting at the bench texting, Liam and Carl in their seats at the dinner table, hungry, waiting expectantly for dinner. 

“Woah, Ian! Looking good, sweet face,” Fiona had exclaimed, her eyes settling on him. “Hot date tonight, huh?” She could never resist the urge to tease her brother about his mystery boyfriend, in the vain hope that Ian would actually open up and let them know a little something about him. 

“I guess. Thanks. Going out,” Ian had replied, never sure how to accept a compliment and not wanting to give too much away. He leaned over and planted a goodbye kiss on Liam’s forehead, and ruffled Carl’s hair just to watch him pretend he didn't enjoy it.

“Don’t go spilling any food and shit all over my shirt, okay brother,” Lip smirked as he leaned against the fridge, smoking.

“Surely it’s too big for you though? Or do you wear it as a night dress?” Ian had teased. He heard Lip chuckle and Ian realised how much he missed his brother and the friendly ribbing they would inflict upon each other. It used to be a daily occurrence, but since Lip was so busy with college, now happened randomly and infrequently, like his visits.

Ian made it to the front door, and turned back around to face his family. “I might be back tonight, might not. Don’t worry,” he said, internally wincing at the very fact he, as a nineteen - almost twenty - year old, an adult, had to live by these disclaimers, lest anyone worry he’d gone off his meds or worse. _Fucking mental illness._

Once on the El, Ian had struggled with an almost overwhelming desire to jump off the train each time it stopped. He longed to disappear into the night, wandering aimlessly through unfamiliar streets for a few hours, before eventually returning home, as cool as if everything had gone completely to plan, keeping the truth to himself. A new secret to add to all his others.

He felt like an imposter, imagining himself at this family dinner, playing happy families with Nate and his parents and siblings, while harbouring this gnawing, relentless feeling that just continued growing, snowballing inside him; the familiar realisation that he was still in love with Mickey, and the agonising possibility that he'd ruined everything between them beyond repair. 

Ian really wished he could talk to someone about his thoughts of Mickey that seemed to consume more and more of him each day. But his family knew the Milkovich name and everything it implied, and had never understood what Ian saw in Mickey. They were automatically biased, because they didn’t know the real Mickey. And sweet, kind, caring Nate, now the person closest to him, the person Ian should be able to share his feelings with wouldn’t want to hear him lament his feelings for his ex-boyfriend. When Ian was younger, he had asked Lip what a catch 22 was. His brother hadn’t known either, but Lip, not wanting to reveal this shortcoming, had rambled on about something or other, without explaining anything at all, and Ian had resigned himself to never knowing. But sitting on the El, on the way to his maybe-boyfriend’s apartment, confused and frustrated and thinking about Mickey Milkovich, Ian thought he finally understood what it meant.

Ian had made it to Nate’s neighbourhood and started walking leisurely from the El. He was in a good neighbourhood now, the hypervigilance he was accustomed to using when walking through Southside now unnecessary. He was able to take in his pleasant surroundings; the stream of non-threatening fellow pedestrians and the slick, illuminated window displays of the Northside stores he passed. He concentrated on getting himself to the apartment, not allowing anything distract him, to convince him to turn around in the opposite direction and keep on walking, running, not looking back. 

Nate was his usual upbeat self when Ian showed up at his apartment door. “I’m so happy to see you. Glad you made it,” he had smiled, pulling Ian towards him in a hug, breathing in and nuzzling his neck. The hug felt warm and lovely, causing sharp, pleasant pangs of affection to dance around in Ian’s stomach. His feelings for Nate were there, for sure, but they were always railroaded by his feelings for everything Mickey Milkovich.

It was in Nate’s car, on the drive to the restaurant that everything had turned to shit.

 

Ian watched the lights on the dashboard display of Nate’s car, shifting and changing, like tiny LED chameleons, as the information it shared was constantly updated and adjusted. This one was one of those nice expensive cars, the type that always seemed new regardless of their age, similar to the cars that Jimmy-Steve used to steal. Nate’s car suited him. It went with his nice house, nice hair, nice eyes and nice hands.

“Hey, I have to talk to you about something,” Nate said, abruptly without his usual trace of subtle hesitation that could be detected whenever he decided to broach a new topic of conversation with Ian. Ian could tell that his conversation, whatever it was, was going to happen now.

For a brief second, Ian entertained the idea that Nate could read minds and had been able to intercept his Mickey thoughts. Ian blinked and went through a mental checklist to ensure he had taken all his pills today. He had. _Not crazy, just really fucking weird._

“So, my parents…… I didn't tell them.. no one knows you’re bipolar, okay,” Nate continued. His speech had increased in speed slightly, as though he wanted to get the conversation over and done with as quickly as possible. Nate obviously needed to be finished by the time they got to the restaurant.

“Okay,” Ian shrugged. 

“Yeah. So probably don’t mention it?” Nate ploughed on “Because it’s kinda a lot to take in right away, you know? And if anyone asks about.. stuff. Well just don’t go into any detail, gloss over it.” 

“Stuff,” Ian repeated. What the hell did that even mean? Ian could hear Nate's words, but was struggling to connect him as the source of them. What was wrong with him? He suddenly seemed changed. He looked like the same guy who was so unbothered by Ian’s bipolar disorder, that had Ian felt free and comfortable to laugh about it, make jokes at his expense, call himself crazy in front of him. But Nate's words were at odds with the person Ian thought he knew. Nate seemed embarrassed of him, as though Ian suddenly wasn't good enough for him. And the irony was, it seemed to have nothing to do with fucking Southside. It was because Ian was bipolar, something completely out of Ian's hands. This was a betrayal.

“Who would you like me to be instead?” Ian spat the words, angry. It’s not as though Ian was itching to tell Nate’s family about his mental illness, but objected to being forbidden to talk about it. He frowned, trying to recall anything of note that had happened in the last two years that wasn’t related to his bipolar disorder. So much had happened, for almost no reason other than Ian being mentally ill. It was a lot to ‘gloss over.’ It was impossible, in fact. 

“You of course. Just -.”

“Just without the shitty parts. The embarrassing bits,” Ian interjected. Anger was festering in Ian’s stomach. He wanted to yell or punch a hole in a wall and he definitely didn't want to be in this car anymore. Socialising was now the last thing he wanted to do. But as angry as he was, he was aware of a niggling feeling of self-doubt. Ian was sure Nate was out of line, he was sure there was an argument to be had here, a valid one, but self-reflection was causing him pause. Was this really something worthy of his current level of anger, or was he overreacting? Maybe this anger was just a further reawakening of the part of him that felt feelings, slowly reanimating, gathering feeling, springing up and catching him by surprise.

Ian took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. “Okay, fine. Whatever,” he conceded. He lacked the mental energy to respond with anything other than unenthusiastic compliance and he couldn't find the words to articulate the depth and severity of the emotion churning in his stomach. He heard his mother Monica’s words echoing around in his head. Her words always haunted him when he was feeling vulnerable and exposed, his own insecurities lending weight to them, adding credence. _People don’t understand you Ian. People are always going to try and change you_. 

_Change me, or hide me,_ Ian silently agreed. 

Ian stared out the window of the car, watching the sun setting over the city buildings, pedestrians on the footpaths briskly walking home, to the El, their second jobs, to pick up the kids, all of them with plans that had nothing to do with him. Ian wished he was one of those people. He didn’t care which one, any of them would do. They’d have their own problems of course, but they wouldn’t be these problems. The problems that Ian was so very tired of.

* * *

After dinner, Ian was still sullen and brooding, still refusing to look at his maybe-boyfriend. But Nate had wanted to sit down in a park to talk before their night ended. Ian had tried glossing over all the parts of himself that Nate found suddenly embarrassing, but he was sure he had only raised the suspicion of his family. They had listened dutifully as Ian answered their questions with accounts of one seemingly random and impulsive act after another. But, with no common thread to connect his stories, Ian knew they sounded disparate and bizarre. And he hadn’t even shared the juicy parts.

Nate was talking. Something about being worried at how angry Ian was. How he wasn’t sure if it was good for him to be this angry, that he didn’t want to leave him in this angry state. Ian was angry, frustrated and annoyed, sure. But he had certainly been much angrier in his life. On a scale of one to ten, his anger now had levelled out to about a six. 

He finally relented and turned his head towards Nate, watching his face but paying no attention to his words as they continued spilling from his mouth. Ian tried to imagine how he and Mickey would have dealt with his mood. Mickey might have been able to talk Ian down, if he had happened upon the right words to break through his stubborn wall of silence, but more than likely it would have ended in a fist fight. And eventually, when their physical rage had petered out, they would fuck, whatever problem they had had with each other being abandoned, never to be spoken of again.

Ian studied Nate’s fine, delicate features illuminated under the light of the full moon. His perfect straight nose and long dark eyelashes, his soft lips moving perfectly and evenly, his tongue gently licking his lips after he finished each sentence. Nate’s was not a face that anyone could punch. Ian did the next best thing, instead. He grabbed Nate roughly at the back of his neck and pressed his mouth against his, pushing his tongue in and licking at Nate’s mouth, his residual anger pulsing through him, fueling his desire. Nate exhaled and was returning the kiss, both of them frantically licking and tonguing inside each others mouths. Ian fumbled with Nate’s pants, shoving him back against a nearby tree, moving one hand between his legs where he was already hard, and the other under his shirt aggressively rubbing and grappling at his smooth chest.

“Ian-,” Nate gasped, breathless and full of lust.

“Stop talking,” Ian demanded, kissing and sucking along Nate’s jawbone and his neck. Nate unzipped Ian’s pants and started massaging his dick, frantic and eager. Ian grabbed Nate’s hips and flipped him around so he was facing the tree and started working his fingers inside his maybe-boyfriend, preparing him. Slowly and purposefully.

“Uhh.. yeah.. God.. Ian,” Nate breathed, seeming to have difficulty forming the words. Ian took this as his cue and entered Nate, thrusting into him without ceremony. He felt Nate clench in response and then relax. He continued thrusting, each movement harder and deeper than the last. 

They had never fucked like this before, angst ridden and spontaneous, and Ian made short work of both of them. With every thrust, a moan escaped Nate’s lips, slightly effeminate but wanting and primal. Ian thought, at that moment, it was almost the hottest sound he’d ever heard. Nate’s hips started to jerk violently and Ian pounded into him one final time before coming hard.

Ian pushed off Nate, pulled his own pants up and wiped his messy hand on the tree. Ian didn’t feel quite so angry anymore. He thought of the therapist he’d seen during his seventy two hour stint in the mental ward, who had told him when he felt angry, it was important that he was able to soothe himself. This probably wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

“Oh my god..” Nate gasped. “Oh my god.” He was leaning with his back against the tree, surprised and exhausted. Without making eye contact or saying goodbye, Ian picked up his coat and walked away towards the El.

 

When Ian arrived back home, the house was quiet. Fiona, Carl, Liam and Debbie had all gone to bed. He found lip laying on the couch smoking. Drunk. He’d been at The Alibi.

“Ian. My man. You’re home. Not so hot date?” Lip teased, slurring his words.

Ian thought about the events of the last hour, in the park. He smiled, one of his sideways smiles that said to anyone who knew him, _there’s plenty I could tell you, but I’m not going to._

“Yes.. No.. I dunno. Not gonna talk about it,” Ian replied, shaking his head and making his way up the stairs to bed. Underneath the sobering light of the kitchen, Ian was suddenly aware of how tired he was. He felt exhausted, something he hadn’t noticed as he had been walking around outside in the cool city night.

Lip had followed Ian to the foot of the staircase and stood there, watching his younger brother, and feeling pensive and unsure. “Listen, Ian,” he started. Lip had known what he had wanted to say for a few hours now, but the booze and the late hour had weakened his resolve and he was having second thoughts. Ian turned around and looked down at his Lip, raising an eyebrow as an indication that he was listening. 

Lip shifted his weight on his feet and blew out smoke from his cigarette, his eyes scanning his brother. His face took on a more sober expression. He looked anxious and indecisive, his drunken eyes becoming focussed and fixed on Ian, as if he were searching his face for answers. He looked away momentarily, his eyes briefly fixing on a random spot on the staircase behind Ian, then returned to his brother. “.. Sleep well,” he said.

Ian frowned and continued climbing the staircase to his room. He couldn’t help but wonder if Lip had intended to say something else.

* * *

The obstacle course at the abandoned building was exactly how they had left it. This fact alone angered and offended Mickey. How dare it sit there, unknowing and unchanged, mocking him, while every other fucking thing, about him, about Ian, about the two of them together, had been turned on its head. The beer cans that Mickey had used for target practice all those years ago, still sat on the ledge where he’d placed them, or had remained unmoved on the concrete where they’d fallen after being hit. Mickey couldn’t understand how it was that these inanimate objects could withstand being shot at, the elements, the wind -- yet humans could break so easily. If not physically but mentally, like Ian had. Like how Mickey felt now, broken and changed. How could such pointless, disposable objects be stronger than him? He wished he was able to be fired at, beaten down, weathered and abused and still emerge at the other side the same old Mickey Milkovich he had always been.

Mickey was trying desperately to find someone to blame for his dreadful mood. Lip’s words from their earlier conversation at The Alibi were still echoing around his mind, growing more spiteful and malicious with each iteration, propelling him forward as he left The Alibi, not knowing exactly where he was headed, but knowing wherever he ended up, he would likely feel worse. And somehow Mickey had found himself back at the abandoned building site - his and Ian’s abandoned building - consumed with anger, rage, and hurt. 

He found it easy initially, to blame Lip for this latest shitshow of emotions. Lip, with his smug face, sarcastic mouth and air of indifference, which wasn’t actually indifference at all, Mickey realised. It was spite. Mickey wished he had punched that smug expression off his stupid face. But he hadn’t of course, because that would upset Ian and when everything was said and done, he really didn’t want to do that. The old Mickey would have beaten Lip within an inch of his life, that much he knew, and it probably would have made him feel a lot better than he was feeling now. 

Mickey sighed, took another swig of his beer and hurled a rock at one of the invincible beer cans. It seemed logical to blame his stupid brother, Iggy, as he had done for most of his life, for countless reasons. And it was Iggy’s fault that he’d had to run to The Alibi, breaking his vow to never return there, never to set foot inside that place with its familiar sounds, and smells and clientele and inherent Gallagher-ness. Some people would blame the universe, or feel that they were cursed or doomed. This almost made sense to Mickey. Afterall, things had been going well - maybe not well, but okay - for him for a couple of weeks now. He’d had to get a job to satisfy the conditions of his parole, but if he was honest with himself he had actually wanted a job - a real one. So Mickey had gone legit. Not the slightly-less-illegal bullshit he used to convince himself was legit; but an actual tax-paying, social security number required, shitty health insurance provided, paid over the table job.

Mickey was qualified for next to nothing, which came as absolutely no surprise to anyone, but he could drive, and actually had a license. Since he rarely drove the car because they couldn’t often afford petrol, he had managed to avoid receiving any traffic violations, which made him an almost perfect candidate for a delivery truck job. And the job itself wasn’t half-bad. He spent his days driving around the Southside and beyond, listening to music in the van, delivering stock and supplies to local businesses. Almost everyday was different, and because he was constantly moving, he had less time to think about Gallagher. The pay was shit, of course, and he was painfully aware he’d make more dough if he started up again running with his brothers, but he thought he’d give this whole walking-the-line thing a go first.

He’d been at home minding his own business, helping Yev his dinner of vegetables and chicken cut up into cute, little, kid-sized pieces. Dammit if Mickey wasn’t starting to like the little guy. He’d already missed out on so much while he was in the joint, he relished these little things. Svetlana had been resting, or sending clandestine messages back to her mother country, or whatever the fuck it was she did when she offloaded Yev onto Mickey and disappeared into the remainder of the house.

Mickey and Yev had been having a great time, Mickey making faces and Yev giggling and laughing in response. They were interrupted by a violent beating at the door.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR MILKOVICHES,” a voice boomed. An unfamiliar voice. Mickey could scarcely believe that some clown had the balls, or the stupidity, to beat upon their door. Mickey almost laughed. They were Milkoviches; their reputation preceded them. Or at least it used to. If doors were going to be beaten, it would be a Milkovich who would be doing the beating. Not the other way around.

Yev had started screaming and Mickey quickly grabbed a gun from one of the many convenient hiding spots he and his brothers and Terry had used to stash weapons over the years. Just in case, they had always said. 

Svetlana had come running out of her room, cursing and yelling in Russian. Mickey assumed she had been cursing, because if you asked him, the entire Russian language sounded like one person hurling abuse at another. She ran to Yev and picked him up, shielding his face, pressing him close to her and bouncing him up gently up and down.

Mickey took a deep breath and steeled himself before flinging the door open with his gun pointed squarely at the three strangers on his doorstep brandishing baseball bats. He forced himself not to laugh at the sheer stupidity of the scene.

“Alright little leaguers. You’ve got five fucking seconds to tell me the fuck it is you’re doing on my front doorstep, before I start shootin’. And you know I fucking will.” Mickey didn’t want to shoot anyone -- he would defend himself and Svetlana and the kid if it came to that, but he had never had the blood lust of his brothers and father, not that anyone else knew that - besides it would be a violation of his parole. In fact, it probably already was - him standing there threatening people with his firearm? He was never really sure what the second amendment was all about. He just knew there were guns hidden all over the house and they hadn’t been difficult to obtain.

“Where the fuck’s Iggy?” one of them said, with somewhat less bravado now they were face to face with a firearm. Mickey hadn’t seen these guys before, but he had been in prison for over twelve months so he was probably out of the loop. Still, they seemed out of their element. _Bringing baseball bats to a gunfight_ , Mickey stifled his laughter again.

He cocked his pistol and growled, “I don’t know where the fuck he is, but I’ll be sure to let him know a bunch of pussies were looking for him. 5… 4… 3…” They ran off on the third count and Mickey slammed the door closed, returning to the chaos in his house. Yev was grizzling and Svetlana was trying to soothe him, still talking in Russian. Mickey was going to have to find Iggy. He didn’t think these fools were a serious threat, but he was enraged at the fact that this had unfolded with Yev in the house, in the room, in front of him. Mickey realised that Yev was at the age where he’d start remembering things, like he remembered the violent flashes of gunshots and fighting and Terry beating on their mother. He didn’t want Yev’s first memories to violent and horrific like his own.

Mickey grabbed his jacket and started lacing up his boots.

“You go now. You find stupid brother. Sort out this fucking shit,” Svetlana demanded.

“Jesus christ, woman, that’s what I’m about to do. Fuck me, if I don’t want to roam the streets half dressed.”

He headed straight to The Alibi, feeling confident he’d find his brothers there. It wasn’t like they had anything better to do. When when he arrived, the bar was exactly as he had remembered it. Still a shithole, still with the same old Southside fixtures sitting around at the bar, lamenting the state of the world, and slurring their conversations over their drinks. If someone had told Mickey that these guys had been sitting at the bar for a year and a half without ever having left he would have believed it. Was it really only Mickey that had changed?

He found Iggy playing pool and told him what had happened.

“Ohh, yeah. We’re moving some merchandise for some new guys but we aint got around to it yet. Tomorrow, for sure,” his brother had explained.

“I don’t fucking care what is happening so long as we don’t got fucking clowns with baseball bats knocking on the door again,” Mickey spat at his brother. “There’s a child in the house, you fucking idiot. Go and do what you need to fucking do, right now so we don’t gotta deal with a repeat of this fucking bullshit. GO!”

Iggy had left begrudgingly, and Mickey had been leaving to return home to Svetlana and Yev, when a familiar voice called out to him from the bar. “Milkovich! If it isn’t my favourite recidivist! Let you out early, did they?”

Mickey knew exactly who that voice belonged to and he was definitely not in the mood for his shit, not tonight. Especially not tonight. He was already keyed up and aggravated. Definitely not the kind of mood you wanted a Milkovich to be in. Not the mood that Mickey himself even wanted to be in.

“Hello Phillip. Or whatever the fuck your name is,” Mickey said, sighing inwardly as he turned and saw Lip Gallagher sitting at the bar, smugness and arrogance radiating from him like body odour. Lip wasn’t just sitting in any seat either - he was sitting in Frank’s seat, perhaps blissfully unaware that he looked and sound like a Frank Junior. Mickey found this hilarious but chose not to react.

“Not looking for Ian, are you?” Lip sneered, clearly already quite drunk.

“No, I fucking aint,” Mickey bit back. In fact, he longed for the day when he could visit The Alibi without seeing any Gallaghers. It was unlikely to ever happen, but if it did, he’d mark it on the fucking calendar and petition for it to become a national holiday.

“That’s good, because he’s out tonight. Out to dinner with his boyfriend.”

Mickey stood there, stunned, feeling like he’d been punched in this stomach, winded. His mind was swimming with smart arse replies but his lips would not cooperate. Mickey was speechless - unable to form words, for probably only about the second time in his life. Deep down, he knew that Lip was only confirming Mickey’s suspicions - that Ian would have moved on - but it did nothing to remove the sting from his words.

“The fuck I care? Good for fuckin’ Ian!” he finally managed to reply. He felt himself chewing on his bottom lip. That stupid old habit, betraying him.

“Yeah, they’re having a family dinner, some special occasion. A restaurant in Northside.”

“Don’t care, Lip. Got stuff I gotta do - I’m out,” Mickey said, backing away.

“Yeah, Ian’s moving up in the world, you know.” Lip continued, the look of smug satisfaction on his face growing with each word. “Nate - oh, that’s his boyfriend - he’s loaded, good family, nice Northside apartment - Ian practically lives there.”

Mickey could hear Lip was still ranting about Ian’s new boyfriend like he was some sort of deity and how fucking respectable his family was, but Mickey could barely hear him over the cacophony in his own head. His ears were ringing, he could feel blood rushing to his head and his pulse beating in his neck. Right about now, the old Mickey would have punched Lip in the face, knocked him off his stool and kicked him until his rage subsided, before walking away. All in a day's work. 

Instead, he stood in the middle of The Alibi, seething, desperately trying to find the right words, angry, frustrated and perhaps on the verge of tears. 

“It sounds like you’re fucking gay for this guy too, ay Lip. Maybe if you ask real nice, he’ll let you suck his cock!” he yelled. It wasn’t Mickey’s best retort, but it was all he could manage. He then pulled out his phone, pretended to check his messages and left, his middle finger saying everything left to say. In other words, Mickey Milkovich ran away like a little bitch.

 

Mickey was onto his seventh beer at the building site and was feeling pretty trashed. He laid back on the ground and stared up at the full moon and the stars. He felt like he’d been doing a lot of stargazing recently, but it seemed to relax him in some way. The usual bullshit that swirled around in his head would melt away when he stared at the sky, his mind would focus.

He wasn’t stupid; he was painfully aware that it was Ian who had dumped him. He knew that Ian wasn’t going to live the rest of his life celibate, but he would have preferred to find out about his new boyfriend some other way, from literally any other source than Lip Gallagher. And he didn’t want to know the details. Or his fucking name. Nate? _What the hell kind of name is that_. Mickey hated the guy on the basis of his name, alone. He didn’t care if Ian’s boyfriend’s family were Northside and fucking loaded. He didn’t want to imagine Ian and these unknown faceless Northside pussies sitting around playing happy families, talking about stock prices and property values and fucking politics. He didn’t need to know that Ian’s boyfriend was rich, college-educated with his own apartment. He didn’t need to know that he was everything that Mickey wasn’t. Everything Mickey could never be, even if he wanted to. 

“FUCK IAN GALLAGHER,” Mickey screamed into the night. Fuck him. His voice echoed around the decaying walls and into the air, a chorus of anonymous supporters agreeing with him, repeating his own words back to him in moral support. _Fuck Ian Gallagher. Fuck Ian Gallagher. Fuck Ian Gallagher._

All Mickey wanted was for this pain to stop. He’d been in physical pain before - being shot in the butt cheek will do that to you - and he knew exactly how to deal with that, but this emotional pain was something else. It was gnawing and persistent and unrelenting, with no end in sight and no cure that he could see, apart from time, maybe. But how much time? Mickey had no idea. It was just another unknown in a sea of unknowns that was his world now; his life as someone who had had their heart broken. How could Ian be in love with him one minute and breaking up with him the next? Why did Mickey require so much more time to heal? Nothing made any goddamn sense. He shuddered imagining the Mickey of old shaking his head in shame and disbelief if he could have seen what he had become, what he had let Ian Gallagher do to him.

Mickey was well and truly drunk now. He felt his mind wandering off, his thoughts dancing around, fleeting and unfinished, one random, disconnected idea after another; Yev, Svetlana, memories of playing little league when he was six, Ian, this place. He sighed and shut his eyes. It was getting cold, laying on the cement, the air growing cooler around him as the night took over, but Mickey didn’t care. 

He remembered one time when he and Ian had both been high and Ian told him that the universe was infinite, that it may not have a beginning or an end. Mickey had had no idea what Ian was talking about, thinking Ian was just really fucking high. Looking up at the full moon and sky and the stars which were as bright as he’d ever seen them, Mickey realised he might finally understand what Ian had meant. What if Mickey hadn’t changed, but evolved? Maybe there was no past or present Mickey, at all. Mickey suddenly realised that if he was different now, he could continue to change. Old Mickey and this new Mickey who had had his heart broken and knew what intimacy was and missed it, were two parts of the same whole. He could be hard arse Mickey Milkovich from before if he really wanted to -- maybe he would still be that Mickey if the situation called for it. And if he couldn’t, maybe he’d continue to evolve somehow. He had a job now, a real job. Maybe, just maybe, anything was possible. If he just kept walking the line, keeping himself legit, everything might just be okay. Probably not great, but okay. He didn’t need to aspire to be some pretentious Northside fuck, but he could be a better father to Yev, maybe even a role model if he really tried hard, if things started going his way for once. 

He realised suddenly how much he missed his sister Mandy, whom he hadn’t spoken to or heard from in over two years. He hoped she was okay. A small nagging voice inside his head told him he should have done more to get Kenyatta out of her life, and wondered if she was even still alive, but he didn’t want to entertain that thought right now. He and Mandy weren’t close in the same way those fucking Gallaghers were; the Milkovich household had been run on Terry’s fear and manipulation, instead of love. Each Milkovich child was terrified of the violence and abuse just enough for their father to play each one against another if it suited his purpose. But not Mickey and Mandy. He never did anything to hurt her, never would. They had each other’s backs, even if it wasn’t immediately obvious to outsiders. Mandy had wanted to change, for her life to change. She had understood that change was okay. She wanted to be more than just a Southside hoodrat; that’s why she left with Kenyatta, for better or worse. She wanted more for herself, even if she didn’t know how to do it on her own.

Mickey was amazed by the perspective and clarity he was suddenly experiencing. An epiphany of sorts. For the first time that he could remember, he actually felt somewhat positive. The fact that he had only been able to achieve this after drinking eleven beers would be a problem for another day. _Alcohol. God fucking love it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented previously :)
> 
> The next chapter will be focused mainly on Ian.


	4. Black Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody understood him. The only person who had come close would probably never speak to him again. Mickey. Ian wondered what Mickey was doing right now. Whatever Mickey was or wasn’t doing, was probably because of him, Ian decided. Because Mickey had gone to prison because of him. To avoid him. Because that was the kind of knee-jerk manner in which Mickey reacted to things. Ian should have known that. He should have known better than to break up with him the way he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I accidentally uploaded the wrong version of the first chapter which is missing the explanation that Mickey was released early from prison. I have fixed it now. But this is why Ian and the rest of the Gallagher's don't realise he's out yet.. whoops.
> 
> * I wanted this chapter to explore what happened to Ian in between breaking up with Mickey and taking his meds; something the show just completely skipped over.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> There are depressive thoughts (paragraph 5-6), and some suicidal ideation (paragraph 14), so please skip those paragraphs if you need to.
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER:... no hints. But I think you will like it :)

Ian had woken up the day after Nate’s family dinner and the angry park sex, feeling different. Different to how he had been feeling recently, but familiar in a way that scared him. Like a distant memory, an old enemy revealing itself to him slowly through the fog. He’d given himself ten minutes to wake up, for his mind to clear itself of the med-induced brain daze he was now accustomed to. And it had, sort of. But once he’d remembered where he was, what he was doing the night before and why he was in his own bed, he toyed with the idea of calling in sick to his shift at Patsy’s Pies. He’d say he had food poisoning, or that he’d come down with the flu. The problem with any of these excuses was the inconvenient fact that his sister, whom he lived with, was the assistant manager. Calling in sick would get him out of work, but he’d have to continue the charade once Fiona arrived home from work and he knew he just couldn’t be bothered.

He dragged himself out of bed, and down to the kitchen. His body felt old and heavy, as though he was fully dressed in soaking wet clothes, adding new weight and extra effort to each step. It felt a bit like walking through shallow water, except there was no water because he was standing in the kitchen of his family’s home. Lip had left an empty bottle of whisky on the bench - _christ, exactly how much had Lip had to to drink last night?_ Ian hated seeing empties strewn all over the house the morning after. It reminded him of Frank. He would always quickly transfer them to the garbage - out of sight, out of mind - so he could continue to pretend they were all okay, that none of his siblings were problem drinkers. 

But this morning, he couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to make the short trip to the garbage bin outside the back door. He just needed coffee, that’s what it was. He was allowed to be tired. His mind might be fucked, but he was still human and humans got tired.

Last night had been a weird night. He had thought that Nate understood him, if only a little bit. But he was wrong about that. Nobody understood him. The only person who had come close would probably never speak to him again. _Mickey_. Ian wondered what Mickey was doing right now. Whatever Mickey was or wasn’t doing, was probably because of him, Ian decided. Because Mickey had gone to prison because of him. To avoid him. Because that was the kind of knee-jerk manner in which Mickey reacted to things. Ian should have known that. He should have known better than to break up with him the way he did. He should have known it wouldn’t end well. Maybe he did know, but just hadn’t cared at the time. Whatever happened to Mickey in prison would be all Ian’s fault. He wondered whether he even deserved Mickey. Did he deserve anything? Maybe this fucking illness was exactly what he deserved.

He poured his coffee and stared into it for what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes. He watched small undissolved particles of dark coffee spiral in unending circles until they dissolved and disappeared into the milky water. Then more particles would surface, spiral and drown, their only purpose to add flavour to his drink, so he could consume it, hopefully wake up a bit and then piss it out later. Pointless. 

Everything seemed pointless if you thought about it. Like, really thought about it. The sun setting and rising everyday, the tides receding in the morning only to return in the evening, meeting people, fucking, falling in love and then breaking up. All for what? You were born, and people looked after you and when you were old enough you had to contribute, and if you were lucky you’d get a good job and make good money so you could contribute and still have enough leftover to buy yourself things that you really didn’t need. Then you’d have kids so they could continue the cycle, and then you would get old, with enough earned from your good job so you could continue to live comfortably, and then you would die and everyone you left behind would be sad.

Pointless.

Ian remembered that time, two years ago, when he’d woken up in Mickey’s bed, tears bristling in his eyes, and he’d felt so sad, wasted even, unable to think, unable to move, his body leaden and exhausted. He remembered Mickey trying desperately to get him up. He remembered wanting to get up but not wanting to move at the same time. He remembered Carl and Debbie’s presence in the doorway and Mickey asking them if they knew what was wrong.

_Yes, we know what this is_ , Debbie had said.

“I know what this is,” Ian said out loud in the kitchen, alone.

* * *

The walk down to the medical centre had seemed insurmountable to Ian. Just admitting to himself that he needed to get help, and soon, had felt like scaling a mountain. Ian Gallagher did not like asking for help -- it was everybody else that came to him for help. He was the level headed one. The low-maintenance Gallagher. He didn’t complain too much, and he didn’t want to be a burden. He wasn’t the smartest Gallagher - that dubious honour went to Lip - but he was the reliable one. Helpful. Independent. Self-sufficient. He had liked it that way.

 

This new way of being, the one in which his mind needed to be permanently buoyed by medication in order to stay afloat, had been almost possible for Ian to accept when he’d first received his bipolar diagnosis. So he’d stopped taking his medication, run away with Monica, and then broken up with Mickey. The first two months after Mickey had been the worst of his life. He didn’t want to take that medication, wasn’t going to take it. He had resented Mickey’s ultimatum and then Mickey was gone, replaced instead by the nagging and the overbearing concern and hushed whispers from the rest of his family. _Don’t forget your medication, Ian. You might feel a bit better if you take your medication._ He’d destroyed the best thing in his life and for what? Absolutely nothing had changed. He’d still felt like a failure, useless, a stranger to himself, and on top of that he couldn’t even see his boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend - Ian had seen to that. _Everything is fucked up and it’s all my fault._

A quiet, persistent voice inside his head had told him that maybe he really might feel better if he gave the medication a shot. A real shot. Not just a couple of days here and there, but an actual attempt at adherence. But Ian wasn’t sure he even deserved happiness. How could he, after what he’d done to Mickey? Why should he try to heal himself when Mickey would be wasting his life in prison?

Ian had started to imagine what it would be like to just shut his eyes and drift off to sleep, never to awaken. Nobody would have to worry about him anymore, he would no longer be a burden or an expense, and his pain would finally end. Except his pain wouldn’t end, not really. It would only be handed down to the rest of his family, Fiona, Lip, Debbie, Carl and Liam. Maybe even Frank. Monica too, if she ever found out. It would become a new burden of its own. The quiet, persistent voice inside his head had started to grow stronger. _Take your medication, Ian. You might feel better if you take it, Ian. Take the fucking medication._ Only that time it hadn't been Fiona’s voice, or Mickey’s or Lip’s. It had been his own. 

He had listened to his voice inside his head, repeating over and over, stubbornly, like a mantra, growing louder and more insistent, until one day he reached over to grab his pills from next to his bed and took one of each. Three pills twice a day, with food. And he did the same thing that night. And the day after, and the day after that. He vowed to never share with anyone close he had come to ending it all. He would bury the memory deep at the back of his mind. Nobody else had to know how about it, because Ian Gallagher was never going to feel that way again.

For the past twelve months he had managed to keep his bipolar disorder under control. He had felt pretty flat for the better part of that year, but isn’t that what ‘stable’ meant? No significant highs or lows. He figured if he kept doing the right things - eating healthily, sleeping properly, exercising, taking his meds on time, he would continue to be okay. He’d even accepted the effect his medication had on his dick. He’d been warned over and over again that it was hard to get the medication cocktail ‘just right’, that it may require tweaking, or that the meds may just stop working. Developing a tolerance, they called it. But he was stable. Ian was the exception to the rules.

Until he wasn’t. Until now.

 

A twenty minute wait in the waiting room, fifteen minutes with the doctor and three hundred dollars worth of medication adjustments, was all it took for Ian to feel like he was back at square one. The same symptoms, the same possible side effects, the same caveats and no guarantees. But he’d gone through this before, and he could do it again; Ian Gallagher was nothing if not persistent, and this time he had actually even kept this therapist appointments. He figured it couldn’t hurt to try it; afterall, if he couldn’t talk to his family and he couldn’t talk to his boyfriend... wait was Nate still his boyfriend? Had he ever been?

Talking with his therapist, Olivia, had been surprisingly easy. Once he had convinced himself that she had already heard everything all before, he unloaded on the poor woman; his inner thoughts and ruminations came tumbling from his mouth with such ease, he wondered if he would ever be able to stop. Ian hadn’t imagined he would enjoy talking to a therapist, but there was just something about sharing his problems with someone who sat there listening intently and validating his every utterance, agreeing with him that _yes, that really would be frustrating, yes I can see how that would really hurt._ He found it cathartic in a self-indulgent kind of way. 

“You’ve made a lot of progress, Ian,” Olivia had said. “You recognised the signs that you were relapsing and took steps to ensure you caught it in time.”

Ian supposed this was true. He had come a long way from the person who refused to believe in his bipolar diagnosis. He was trying now. It was good to hear that validation from someone who wasn’t his own family.

Olivia had actually given him homework; to write down his negative thoughts, feelings and behaviours, and try to provide positive alternate scenarios. Ian figured it couldn’t hurt to try it. He’d pretend that the homework would be graded, just like in school, and he’d give his therapist the best list of negative thoughts she’d ever seen. Was that even possible? Whatever. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered, really, was that he tried.

But, what he really wanted was for her to tell him how to get Mickey back. Most of their conversations were about Mickey anyway. Ian talked about Mickey so often during therapy that he was sick of hearing himself say the words. _Mickey. Mickey. Mickey._ Regardless, Olivia never told him what to do, even when he explicitly asked her. 

“Please tell me how I can get him back?” Ian had asked.

“Why is it important to you that someone tells you what to do in this situation?” Olivia had asked, scribbling something on her notepad. Ian couldn’t believe it. The only time he’d ever wanted to be told what to do, and nobody would tell him. Her suggestion was always the same; try to contact Mickey, a letter perhaps, and then see what happens. Let Mickey come to him. 

“But be prepared to accept the fact that he might not come,” Olivia had told Ian. Ian thought she seemed overly concerned with how he was going to deal with the worst case scenario; that Mickey wouldn’t want anything to do with him. This made him nervous. The frantic overthinking had started right there and then in his therapist’s office. _As good a place for it as any_ , he decided.

“Do you think Mickey is over me?” he had asked her. He didn’t know what he had expected her to say, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking. 

“There’s no way for me to know that Ian,” Olivia had said in her unwavering, measured tone. “What I want to do is make sure you have to skills to deal with the situation, regardless of the outcome.”

Ian knew now that the important part of that plan was to allow Mickey space, but he had never been very good at that. He demanded space from other people, but when it came to Mickey he was never able to follow through with it - he would overthink and wallow, allowing himself to get lost in his own head, until he couldn’t bear to be apart from Mickey any longer. He had always pushed Mickey almost to his limit, until he had no choice but to give an inch, so Ian could take a mile.

Ian had thought about writing to Mickey in prison but he knew he wasn’t much of a reader. He had always imagined labouring over a letter to him, explaining, apologising, pleading, only for Mickey to tear it up and throw it away, and Ian being none the wiser.

He would have to think about it some more.

_Let Mickey come to me. But be prepared to accept that he might not._

* * *

Ian hadn’t expected to hear from Nate again. It had been two weeks since the dinner, and neither of them had been in contact. Ian had thought about texting him but he had no idea what to say. In the end, he'd decided he didn't owe Nate anything and had opted for silence instead. It had surprised him how okay he felt about that.

Ian’s phone had buzzed with a message from Nate during dinner. Fiona had made a lasagne and all the Gallaghers, excluding Lip and Frank were seated around the kitchen table.

Ian looked down and saw the text from Nate;

_Kinda worried about you. Just let me know if you’re okay._

Ian felt a surprising surge of excitement to receive the contact, and slid his phone further under the table, using one hand to text Nate back. 

_I’m fine. Haven’t been feeling great._

“Jesus, Ian!” Fiona exclaimed, exasperated. “We know you’re texting, can’t we all just eat dinner for once , without the distractions?”

“Ian have you paid any attention to anything I’ve said in the last ten minutes? I was saying how Ashley at school is such a stupid slut-,” Debbie started.

“We’ve heard it all one hundred times before, Debs,” Carl interjected. “Ian’s probably just as bored as the rest of us.”

“What’s a slut?” asked Liam.

“It’s nothing, Liam. Nothing at all,” Fiona said in the sickeningly upbeat tone she always used to try and stave off the chaos. She shot Debbie a disapproving look.

“Do I have sluts in my kindy class?” Liam asked innocently.

Ian snorted. “God, you’d hope not.” His phone buzzed again on the table, loudly this time, rattling their plates and cutlery. 

Fiona let out an exaggerated sigh. “If we have to sit here and watch you text him all night, at least tell us something about the guy, Ian?”

“Well..” Ian started. “He’s from Northside.”

“Oh, la di da,” Debbie groused.

“I already knew that, Ian.” Fiona sighed. “So when do we get to meet him? You ashamed of us or somethin’,” she asked, laughing heartily at her own joke. She wasn’t really expecting an answer from her brother, instead anticipating a devious smile and a cagey change of subject in response. 

Ian laughed. His phone vibrated in his hand and he looked down at the latest text from Nate;

_Shit. Can I come over? I owe you an apology._

Ian thought about this for a minute. He had been okay with the idea he may never see Nate again. But he had been cooped up for so long inside the house, that the thought of spending time with someone whose last name wasn't Gallagher was too tempting to resist. 

“Um. Maybe tonight,” Ian said, answering Fiona’s question. There it was. His maybe-boyfriend would be at their house in about forty minutes.

Fiona laughed, surprised. “You’re kiddin’ me? So that’s all I ever had to do? Just ask and you’d deliver? Damn, I’ve wasted so much time.”

Ian smiled, fought back a wave of nausea, and continued picking at his dinner. _Fucking medication._

“Mickey should be out soon,” Carl stated suddenly, his voice matter of fact. Carl’s curiosity always manifested in straight-forward statements or blunt questions. He never bothered with politeness or diplomacy. What was the point in wasting time with manners and niceties when he could get the answers he wanted regardless, by saying exactly what was on his mind? 

“Yeah. Couple of months,” Ian answered, trying his best to sound casual, despite his heart pounding in his chest at the thought.

“Then what?” his younger brother continued.

“Then Mickey will be free to live his life as he pleases,” Ian sighed, knowing exactly where Carl’s line of questioning was headed and wanting desperately to avoid it. “I thought you’d be familiar with the general concept of incarceration and release.”

“Thug for life,” Carl nodded, making a fist and bumping the heart area of his chest.

“Carl!” Fiona yelled. “Can you at least pretend to aspire to somethin’ else? For my sake.”

“Whatever.” Carl shot back at her. “And then will Mickey be coming around to visit after dinner, too?” There was no stopping this kid sometimes, Ian realised. The more uncomfortable the situation, the more it fed Carl’s curiosity.

“I doubt it,” Ian said sullenly and stared down at this food. _But I hope so._

 

After dinner, Ian went upstairs to his room to wait for Nate to arrive. He opened the window and climbed out, leaning his body against the window sill, his long legs hanging over the edge, feet resting on the downstairs roof. The air outside was warm and still. Fond memories of he and Lip sitting on this window sill when they were younger, talking about sex, girls, boys, drinking beer and smoking weed in secret, came flooding back to him. Every little thing that happened to them back then had seemed like a huge deal. At some point though, their teenage years had started to become complicated and the chaos hadn't let up since.

“Hey,” Nate’s voice jerked Ian from his reverie. Ian turned, to see him standing in the doorway. Ian blinked at the sight. Nate in his expensive leather jacket and perfectly fitting skinny jeans, leaning up against the chipped and dented doorway of Ian’s shitty old bedroom that he still shared with his two younger brothers. An anachronism. Like something bright and new and sparkling accidentally thrown out with the trash. He seemed so completely out of context.

“Here,” Ian said, patting the space on the window sill next to him. He was surprised that his anger towards Nate had dissipated quite a bit, or it had been numbed by his new meds. It was actually kind of nice to see him. 

Nate sat down next to Ian, maneuvering his limbs so they could both sit comfortably. Ian swivelled around to face Nate side on, one leg hanging over the edge of the window, his other leg bent and pulled towards him, foot resting on the sill.

“I just met your sister, Fiona,” Nate said cheerfully. “And your brother.. Carl? He was really interested in my car.”

Ian laughed. “Hope it’s still there later.”

“Shit, really?” Nate replied. He hoped Ian was joking but needed reassurance, regardless.

“Nah. _Carl_ wouldn’t nick it,” Ian replied, aware of the ambiguity of his statement, but enjoying taking advantage of his complete and utter cluelessness to the life on the Chicago Southside. In the distance, a blunt, cracking sound rang out and echoed through the neighbourhood.

“Holy shit, was that a gunshot?” Nate asked, horrified. He craned his neck to see around the corner of the house, expecting a cavalcade of police and emergency services to appear at any second. 

“Most likely,” Ian replied. He had barely registered the sound himself, more likely to be alarmed by silent streets, than routine sounds of fighting and trains and gunshots.

“Like a drive-by or something? Shit..”

“You’re Northsiding so hard right now, man,” Ian replied, shaking his head. 

Nate laughed nervously. “So how are you, anyway?” He asked, relaxing enough to place a hand softly on Ian’s knee. “About the other night. I'm so sorry.”

Ian opened his mouth to say everything was fine - his standard response whenever anyone asked since he had started showing symptoms of bipolar disorder two and a half years ago. He paused and decided on an honest answer, instead.

“I.. I haven’t been feeling great. I needed an adjustment to my medication. I’m getting better, but.. I’m all side effects at the moment. Hopefully back at work next week, though.” 

Nate rubbed Ian’s knee gently with his thumb, pressing his eyes with his thumb and index finger of his other hand. “I feel sick thinking that I might have caused this. I stuffed up, handled everything all wrong. I upset you and I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s nothing to do with any of that,” Ian replied, unsure whether he was simply placating Nate or telling the truth. “Nobody ever knows the right way to act about this stupid disorder.” Mickey hadn't. His family still didn't. And this new guy didn't, either apparently. Ian couldn't push everyone away.

Nate ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. “Everyone really liked you, for what it's worth. They said you sound fun and spontaneous.”

“That’s because they don’t know I’m nuts,” Ian laughed, humourlessly.

Ian raised his hand to move a stray piece of hair that was hanging in his eyes. Nate reached up and caught Ian’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and pulled both their hands back down onto Ian’s leg. 

“You’re not crazy,” Nate said, sincerely. He stared into Ian’s eyes. “But I am an idiot. I completely fucked up. I'm not embarrassed of you, it's the complete opposite of that.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. 

“To me, you're just Ian. There's so much more to you than the disorder and I just wanted everyone to see you first, not the illness. Like how I see you.”

Ian realised that in a ham-fisted, clumsy way, Nate had paid him a compliment. _There's so much more to you than the disorder._ Ian wished he could feel that way about himself.

“It’s okay,” Ian replied. “Thanks for telling me that.” He turned so he was sitting next to Nate and rested his head on his shoulder. Nate draped an arm around Ian's shoulders, and gently brushed the back of his hand on the curve of Ian's neck. The affection was comforting after a miserable and lonely two weeks.

“Do you think you can forgive me?” Nate asked. 

Ian paused, thinking about it for a moment. “Yeah.”

“What is going on with us?” Nate started, clearly encouraged by how their conversation was going. “Please don’t distract me with sex this time, just tell me.”

Ian sighed and looked out over the rusted, crumbling rooftops of the houses in his neighbourhood, focusing on a chimney in the distance, collecting his thoughts, and trying to put them into words. “I don’t know,” Ian finally replied with a grimace, aware that his answer wasn’t much of an answer at all. It was something he too had wondered during the five months they’d been seeing each other, but he had dismissed the thought carelessly each time. He couldn’t run this time, as much as he wanted to, so he steeled himself and offered the best answer he could muster. “I’m.. I’m not sure if I can give you what you want, right now. I really like you.. But my head.. Everything.. It’s complicated.”

Nate lifted Ian’s chin with his hand and turned slightly, looking directly at him. “I really like you, Ian,” he paused and then continued. “I’ll wait… Whatever happens, happens, okay?” 

Ian nodded.

Nate moved his lips closer to Ian’s. “I just like being around you. I’m not going anywhere, unless you want me to,” he murmured, his breath from each word brushing against Ian’s lips. Then suddenly they were kissing, softly and slowly, Nate’s thumb stroking his cheek. Ian returned the kiss, enjoying Nate, but unable to push his thoughts of Mickey from his head. 

Ian wished that he and Mickey could have had a normal, adult conversation like this. It would surely have saved a lot of time and heartache. But maybe if they’d been able to converse like regular people, their relationship wouldn’t have been as passionate and all-consuming as it had been. If Mickey had been able to talk about his feelings from the outset, Ian probably would have become bored with him. He always liked a challenge and Mickey had been the ultimate challenge. Now the next challenge for Ian was how he was going to get Mickey to talk to him. And how he was going to get Mickey back.


	5. Movable objects, irresistible force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like this - so much like himself, excited and vital and real. This was almost better than when he was hypomanic. He wanted to bottle this feeling and drink it everyday, like a drug, becoming addicted. His body was awakened with so much emotion and feeling and sensation he felt like he might die from the sheer thrill of it all. The hairs stood on the back of his neck, his arms tingled.

“Come ON! We got customers at table 35 still waitin’ on their orders” Fiona yelled to the kitchen staff. “That’s ONE eggs benny, ONE pancakes with syrup, ONE blueberry waffles with cream, no icecream. _Jesus_.” Whether she loved the job or not, Fiona was born for the assistant manager job at Patsy’s Pies. Ian smiled, listening to his bossy sister, thinking she was in her element. He deposited his last bucket of cutlery and utensils on the bench next to the sink and started loading them into one of the dishwashers. Small victories. 

“Hey buddy,” Fiona said affectionately, as she drifted over to the sink area, giving the kitchen a cursory glance, making sure everything was running smoothly. “That boyfriend gonna show up again today?” She nudged Ian in the ribs, a knowing smile spread across her face.

Ian blushed as he programmed the dishwasher for the fourth time that morning. “Oh yeah, maybe. He might show up at lunch time.”

Ian had been back at work a few weeks. His medication had evened out and the side effects were tapering off. He was feeling quite good actually - whatever ‘good’ even meant anymore. But with the shifts he’d missed while he was ill, the doctor’s bills, therapist bill and his new medication, he was broke, so he was now working doubles clearing tables. One of the stockroom employees had quit suddenly, so Ian had convinced Fiona and Sean to pay him extra if he spent a few hours out the back each day, doing inventory, ordering food and supplies and accepting deliveries. He was exhausted after his twelve hour work days, with barely enough energy to eat dinner and crawl into bed. Too tired to hang out, Nate had started visiting Ian every couple of days at the diner, usually after Ian had finished with the lunch time service.

“I just can’t get over the fact my brother’s boyfriend is better lookin’ than all my exes put together,” Fiona joked. “I don’t even know how to feel about that!” She laughed heartily at her own joke, playfully punching her brother on the arm.

“What can I say? It’s that Gallagher charm,” Ian offered, embarrassed.

“Well it musta skipped me then,” she shrugged, sadness flashing in her eyes for a brief second but then disappearing, replaced instead by her wide enthusiastic smile. “Seriously though.. I think it’s sweet he comes and sees you, Ian. It’s just like how you two met. It’s kinda romantic.”

Ian felt heat rise in his face, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. _There is nothing romantic about how we met._ “Gotta go do the stockroom stuff, Fi,” he shot back, ending the conversation, before his sister noticed his embarrassed, flushed face.

Ian smirked a little as he made this way out to the stockroom, thinking about how he and Nate had first crossed paths. He’d been working at Patsy’s Pies for a couple of months, welcoming the change of scenery from the four walls and ceiling of his bedroom where he’d been holed up, secretly hitting rock bottom and then clawing his way back out. 

The side effects of his medication had been easing, or Ian was just getting used to them - either way he was feeling okay at the time. His crotch had been lifeless for so long, when his sex drive did finally return to him, it returned with a vengeance. He was so relieved that he welcomed even the sexual frustration.

It had been a Monday, just after the lunch time rush when Nate had first visited the diner. He had sat by himself at a booth towards the far corner, dressed in work pants that were a slim fit against his tall, thin frame. His shirt was grey, expensive looking and free of creases. His hair was dark brown and short at the back and sides, longer on top and swept loosely towards one side. Messy, yet somehow perfect. He was cute.

Ian had felt a familiar sensation in his gut. With a bit of luck, this stranger was his. He’d made a beeline for the dirty tables next to this pretty stranger, clearing the tables slowly, looking up every now and then, watching as the stranger pulled a clean, metallic grey laptop from his backpack. _Definitely not Southside._

Ian caught the guy watching him as he leaned across tables. He turned slightly, and there it was; Eye contact. Ian's heart was racing, and he could feel himself becoming flushed. It had been so long since he’d experienced any physical contact besides the chaste, concerned hugs from his family, that he needed to prove to himself that he still had game. He needed to try and feel like himself again, the person he was before bipolar disorder.

Ian held eye contact with the stranger, moving his eyes slowly and deliberately to the his crotch. _I want you._ Ian removed the gloves from his hands and then headed out the front door, to the alleyway at the side, not looking back, hoping - believing - that the stranger was following him.

Once they were both outside, Ian grabbed the stranger by his tie and pulled him towards him. He pushed him against the outside wall of the diner, placed one arm against the wall, and unbelted the guy’s pants, driving his hand beneath his underwear, smoothly and confidently, and started massaging his already hard, warm dick.

“You feel good,” Ian breathed, his voice was almost a growl. “So good.”

The stranger gasped and Ian increased the speed and intensity of his thrusting hand, while the guy fondled hungrily at Ian through his jeans. He pressed his body against the guy’s hips, feeling his small, involuntary jerks signifying that the guy was getting close. The guy breathed out slowly and then it was all over. He grunted softly as his warm come spilled over Ian’s hand. 

“I never do things like this,” the guy whispered. 

“Me either.” _Not anymore._

Two days later, he’d reappeared in the same booth, as though surprise hookups with randoms in shitty Southside alleyways were part of his routine now. 

“My name is Nate. I’m 26 and I’m a loss adjuster.. and.. I want to keep seeing you,” the stranger had said afterwards. He fumbled around in his pocket briefly and pulled out a business card, handing it to Ian tentatively.

 _A loss adjuster? What the fuck?_ Ian had no idea what that occupation was, but he hadn’t stuck around long enough ask, instead leaving Nate in the alley, returning to his work without saying a word.

Yeah. Ian still had game.

 

In the stockroom at the back of the diner six months later, Ian smiled at the memory, thinking it was a great meeting story, but not romantic in any true sense of the word. Both of his relationships had had good meeting stories; drama, spontaneity and passion, able to be replayed in his mind over and over like scenes from movies. Whenever anyone asked how he and Nate had met, they always shared the G-rated version. His happiness drained slightly, when he realised that no one had ever cared enough to ask how he and Mickey got together. Nobody had bothered, because everyone was always too fixated on the fact that Ian saw anything in Mickey Milkovich at all.

Ian shook that Mickey thought out of his head with a sigh, and attempted to distract himself by unpacking cartons and restocking the shelves with their contents. Flour. Baking soda. Salt. Sugar. Yeast. When he had first seen the stockroom he was surprised by how many base ingredients the diner used. With so much of the food made from scratch on the premises, he wondered why it didn’t taste better. He decided it must be the taste of poverty and desperation infusing itself into Southside cooking, in the same way it coated the streets and buildings and everything else in layer upon layer of filth and grime. _Welcome to Poverty’s Pies._ He laughed to himself.

The stockroom was dimly lit and cool, which was a welcome relief from the stuffy, heat of the kitchen. It was also quiet, the sound of crashing plates and cutlery, the relentless hum of diners in conversation, and Fiona’s harried voice tucked safely away in the main restaurant area. The stockroom shift wasn’t a huge upgrade from bussing tables, but it provided slightly more mental stimulation and less opportunity for wallowing.

After half an hour or so of stocking shelves, Ian heard the sound of the first delivery truck arrive, beeping as it reversed back, aligning itself with the partly closed roller door of the stockroom. He walked over to the door, flicked the lock and pulled the bottom of the door towards the ceiling, walking away as the door ascended automatically. He went to find his clipboard and pen - he’d have to sign the manifest and make a note of the updated inventory. He listened as the driver side door opened and the driver’s footsteps made their way around to the rear of the truck. The back doors of the truck made a sucking sound as the driver popped them open, and the humming sound of the refrigerated vehicle filled the quiet.

“Aight, we got a couple’a boxes of fruit and veg here. Where you want ‘em?” the driver called out.

Ian froze. His heart skipped a beat and he shivered as every single hair on his body stood on end. His life seemed to flash before his eyes, only it wasn't his _entire_ life, it was just the best parts; the dugouts, knuckle tattoos, a kiss in a dodgy white van, shotgun. 

_That voice. It couldn’t be, could it? What the fuck?_

“Yo?” the driver called out again casually, but this time with a subtle hint of impatience that Ian would recognise anywhere, so comforting and familiar to him that it felt like coming home. 

_FUCK._

A stew of emotions pooled in Ian’s stomach. Fear, relief, excitement, panic. He had no idea if he wanted to laugh, or cry, or scream. It was impossible to tell. He was on fire. His heart was beating in his neck so violently that he feared the pulsing could be seen through his skin. He was giddy and light headed and weighted to the spot, all at once. He wondered if he was even still breathing, still alive.

The footsteps drew closer, and then suddenly there he was. Standing there. Nothing between them but five feet and two boxes of fruit and veg, Mickey’s arm muscles flexing under the weight of the boxes.

“Mickey,” Ian’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“I-Ian..”

_Let Mickey come to me. But be prepared to accept that he might not._

Ian’s therapist’s words echoed briefly in his mind but it was too late. He wasn’t aware that either of them had even moved, but his clipboard was on the floor and the styrene boxes of produce, discarded and smashed along with their contents.

Suddenly it was happening. Their bodies pressed together, arms wrapped around each other. Their mouths meeting, tongues lashing as they kissed, sloppy at first, but electrified by passion and the desperation of sixteen months apart.

_Mickey’s here. He came to me. We’re together again. I love him and he loves me. It’s just like how it was. Better even. I am alive. I am me again._

“Mickey, Mickey, god -” Ian gasped, breathless. He felt like crying. Maybe he already was.

“Mmm’Ian,” a sound escaped from Mickey’s mouth briefly before their hot, desperate lips found each other again.

Ian couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like this - so much like himself, excited and vital and real. This was almost better than when he was hypomanic. He wanted to bottle this feeling and drink it everyday, like a drug, becoming addicted. His body was awakened with so much emotion and feeling and sensation he felt like he might die from the sheer thrill of it all. The hairs stood on the back of his neck, his arms tingled. Every place that Mickey touched him felt electric and burning hot. Ian’s hands were rubbing through the back of Mickey’s hair, thumb caressing his velvety soft earlobe, just how Mickey liked it. Mickey’s thumb and fingers gently grappling at Ian’s cheek and jawbone, lips pressed together, moving in perfect harmony as though they’d never unlearned each other, never been apart. Erections rubbing together through layers of clothes.

It felt like forever. And also not long enough.

Mickey broke away from him. “NO. No, no, no. Fuck no.” He backed away, palms raised and shaking his head, as though he had walked into a trap and was trying to escape his certain death.

“No…?” Ian said, his voice barely a whisper, an arm reaching out to hold onto Mickey. Mickey was retreating, disappearing, like a mirage, a life raft floating away. If only Ian could hold onto him, keep him there, try and understand what was happening - they could talk, Ian could apologise, beg, whatever it was that Mickey needed Ian to do, he would do it.

“Nah, Gallagher.”

_Gallagher? I’m just Gallagher again, now._

“I’m not going down this fucking rabbit hole with you again,” Mickey cursed.

“But-.”

“You fucked me over, Gallagher. Aint lettin’ you fuck me over again,” Mickey said, his thumb and forefinger pinching his nose, as it always did when he was thinking, anxious, trying to dull the chaos.

“Mickey, p-please..” Ian’s voice cracked and tears welled in his eyes, threatening to pour down his cheeks. With his words failing him, he willed his tears to fall, so Mickey could see what he meant to him.

“Nah, man. I was done with you. I AM done with you.” Mickey threw his hands in the air and walked out, kicking a head of lettuce, smashing it, as he left.

Ian stood in the stockroom, reeling. The entire room was spinning, his surroundings blending and moving and warping together while he remained still, fixed, unable to move, tears streaming down his cheeks. Too little too late. He was trying to breathe but his lungs were burning and shallow and filled with holes. He staggered and lunged through the doorway, his peripheral vision a blur, doubling over himself in the alley and vomiting.

Suddenly, Fiona’s voice was calling out. Calling out to Ian, growing louder and louder and more insistent until she was in the stockroom, seeing the mess of styrene and bruised vegetables and smashed lettuce. The aftermath.

“What the fuck happened? Ian?” Fiona appeared before Ian in the alleyway, blurred and out of focus, squatting down and holding his face between her hands, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “What happened? What the fuck? Are you okay? Talk to me.”

“I..” he started to explain, but had no idea what to say - the truth was just too fucking pathetic. _I saw Mickey and we kissed and it was beautiful, and I finally felt like myself again and then he left because I’m a fuck up and he’s done with me._

“I threw up.”

* * *

Of course. _Of fucking course_ Ian Gallagher would show up unannounced in Mickey’s life, when he least expected it. When he was unprepared. When his guard was down. And of course Ian had to stand there looking better than Mickey had ever seen him in his life, slightly older looking, but still tall and pale and lanky, all pink lips and puppy dog eyes, his hair that autumn shade of red, falling into his eyes just how Mickey liked it. _Ian Gallagher had some fucking nerve._

Mickey needed to get the hell away from that diner as soon as possible. He jumped back into the van and put the vehicle in drive, slamming his foot on the accelerator. The tyres screeched, which Mickey really didn’t like because the sound of burning rubber made his getaway look desperate - it was of course, but Ian didn’t need to know that. Ian didn’t need to know that if Mickey hadn’t left within ten seconds he would have run back into that diner, back to Ian. Or that it had taken Mickey all the willpower he had, not to turn the van around and drive straight back.

He couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch Ian in his pretty fucking face, kiss him again or fuck him. Maybe all three. In that order. What the fuck had just happened? Mickey was like an animal, powered by something that was neither rational or logical, running into Ian’s arms on instinct before he’d even had a chance to try and talk himself out of it. And it hadn’t been one-sided, either - Ian hadn’t kissed him like someone who had moved on. But what about all the things that Lip had told him about Ian’s new life? Northside boyfriend. Family dinners. Moving up in the world. 

Mickey had spent the better part of the last three weeks imagining Ian having some fucking gay Northside wedding, inviting a whole bunch of his new Northside friends, and adopting one of those African orphan babies with this Northside fuck. The saddest part being that it really wasn’t all that difficult for Mickey to imagine; Ian liked kids and he was into grand gestures and that romantic bullshit. It seemed like an obvious eventuality. In Mickey’s mind, Ian was practically fucking married already. And there was no way Mickey Milkovich was going to be some bit on the side. No. He didn’t come out in front of his psychopath father and his family, everyone at The Alibi and everyone he knew, to end up being Ian Gallagher’s sloppy seconds. No fucking way. Ian hadn’t wanted that for himself, and Mickey didn’t want it either. He’d rather die alone.

 _Fuck him._ Mickey was done with Ian’s games.

Mickey drove around making deliveries for the rest of the day. He was pissed off and worked up and probably not in a fit state to be driving, but he hadn’t ended up killing or injuring anyone so Mickey considered that a win. He couldn’t shake the image of Ian standing in that storeroom with his clipboard and pen, taking his work as seriously as if he were splitting the fucking atom, just like at the Kash and Grab. Ian and his skinny, muscular body and his nipples grazing his tshirt just enough to be visible from the outside. Ian and his thumb rubbing over Mickey’s earlobe, his large hands cradling the back of Mickey’s head with his fingers in his hair. FUCK.

Mickey was horny. Really, really fucking horny. All he actually wanted to do was stop by the Gallagher house and fuck Ian six ways to Sunday in his tiny, single bed. But he wasn’t going to give Ian the satisfaction. By the time he’d arrived back home after the longest and most frustrating day of work he’d ever experienced, he knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do. He gave Yev a quick cuddle, threw some money down on the table for Svetlana, went to his room and put on the nicest, cleanest-smelling shirt he could find. His favourite one. The plaid. Mickey knew that Ian really liked him in it, which made Mickey chuckle. _All the fucking better._

Mickey dashed out of the house feeling surprisingly energetic and full of confidence. It was amazing what a raging boner could do for the motivation. He walked down to the El with tunnel vision, barely noticing anyone else around him, or if he did, he was too horny to give a shit. 

He jumped on a train heading north, disembarking at BoysTown and making a beeline for whatever gay bar was closest to him - which, thankfully wasn’t The Fairytale - where he allowed the first halfway decent looking homo that talked to him to fuck him. 

 

* * *

Ian had somehow managed to finish his twelve hour shift at the diner. Fiona had wanted him to go home, but he knew he’d only wallow about at home with no distractions, nothing to prevent him from re-living the kiss over and over in his mind. So he stayed, drifting aimlessly from the stockroom to the main diner floor, his time split between the two jobs, his mind on neither. Fiona was concerned and had been hovering around him for the rest of the day. He let her believe it was his medication. A side effect.

A side effect of Mickey Milkovich.

When Ian’s shift ended, he caught the El home, instead of walking. He chose the least populated carriage and sat alone in a corner in the last row of seats, his arms wrapped around his knees, pulled up to his chest. The yellow fluorescent lights inside the train were harsh and uncompromising, and Ian felt alien and isolated under their relentless gaze. The El was no place for for a broken heart or a bad mood, its atmosphere offering nothing to boost the spirits. He jumped off a couple of stations early with the intention of walking to clear his mind.

He found himself walking through the little league field and to the dugout. He and Mickey’s dugout, where they had fucked and kissed and drunk and gotten high. Their secret life, remembered later through knowing smirks and subtle elbows to the ribs. 

Ian leaned up against the chainlink fence and sighed deeply. The advice from this therapist had not prepared him for what had transpired that morning. He had imagined their reunion in his head over and over again. They would agree to meet somewhere. They would talk. Ian would try and explain, as best he could. He would apologise. Mickey would be pissed off, but he would eventually soften. Maybe - hopefully - they could go back to how they were. Or they wouldn’t. But at least Ian would know that he had tried. And tried.

While he had imagined them talking, he hadn’t thought about how he was going to make it happen. How to start the conversation. They hadn’t been great at communicating, and when Mickey had finally opened himself up to him, Ian had been there, but he wasn’t _there_ there. Not really. He’d been in the midst of a manic episode, irritable, distracted and barely able to hold on to each fleeting thought as it passed through his head, let alone hold down a meaningful conversation. They had communicated with their fists, and smart arse comments and their dicks, and kisses, and soft grunts of pleasure and breath upon necks. But there was so much that Ian needed to say now. Important things. All the thoughts and feelings that he had buried under cagey and dismissive _I’m fine_ responses for the last three years. It had been so long since Ian had shared anything outside of therapy, he wasn’t even sure he remembered how. 

Ian really didn’t know what to do now, couldn’t imagine a next move. Mickey’s body had always said one thing and his words another, but this time, Ian didn’t know what either were really trying to say.

_Let Mickey kiss you like his life depends on it and then tell you to fuck off._

He just couldn’t understand it.

 

Lip was sitting on the back porch smoking a joint when Ian finally made it home. He always looked like he was pondering the many great mysteries of the universe, hunched over, brow furrowed, a look of boredom and disdain on his face, as though the minutiae of everyday life entirely too trivial for him. But Ian knew that his brother’s thoughts mostly revolved around the latest girl he was fucking, or where his next blow job would be coming from.

Ian slumped next to Lip on the porch step, dismissing Lip’s offer of a drag of his joint, with a lazy hand wave. 

“You okay, brother? Fi said you were sick,” Lip asked, exhaling, blowing smoke into the warm night air.

“Just a side effect,” Ian lied, half arsed. “I’m fine.” 

Lip sighed and stretched out an arm, cracking his elbow. “I have to tell you something.”

“Go on.”

“Mickey’s back -” Lip started, but Ian cut him off - a sound escaping Ian’s lips that was part sigh, part bemused laugh.

“I know. I saw him.”

“Oh you saw him?” Lip said, nodding slowly. If an eyeroll could be vocalised, Lip had just achieved it. “Right. Of course you did.” 

“Honestly, Ian..” Lip continued. Ian shook his head, knowing that he never enjoyed conversations that started with or included the words ‘Honestly, Ian.’ “Last week you were sticking it to Northside’s Bachelor of the Year, and this week it's Mickey Milkovich? Again. Fuck, man.”

Ian felt the frustration and anger bubbling up inside of him. As usual, his brother thought he knew it all, when he really knew nothing. Less than nothing. “You can fucking talk. And it’s not like that - it wasn’t like that.”

“It’s not like that? Because, it never fucking is, is it.” Lip snorted. Lip knew the Gallaghers were trash, but as far as he was concerned there was a hierarchy within the trash, and Mickey Milkovich was at the bottom.

“What about Nate?” Lip continued. He was on a roll now, nothing short of a punch in the face would end this conversation until he felt it had ended. “Fiona seems to think he’s a dreamboat.. I mean.. don't you want to get out of this shithole?”

Ian groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. “I don’t need to ride anyone’s fucking coat tails out of here, man.” 

“So what’s the plan, then?” Lip paused briefly, waited for a response from Ian that didn’t come.. “You just going to play house with Mickey fucking Milkovich, his prostitute wife and _their child,_ in fucking Southside, until Mickey winds up in prison again? Because you know that's a fucking inevitability.”

“The plan.” Ian scoffed, angered by the sheer arrogance of his brother. “I'm sorry that the plan I had was derailed by my fucking shitty genes. Congratulations on not winning that lottery, by the way.”

Lip softened, realising the implication of his words. He gently slapped his hand down on Ian’s knee, giving it a friendly squeeze. “Hey, come on, man. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant - I just meant.. Look you’re doing good now, okay. You don’t need Mick-.” 

Ian cut Lip off before he was finished, bringing a fist down onto the railing of the porch, the rotting fixture shaking and shuddering beneath them. “Who are you to judge how I’m doing? You don't know what goes on in my fucking head.” Ian was yelling now, his simmering anger reaching critical mass. Any advice his therapist had given him to count to ten before erupting, disregarded. “You just… you don't know. Just because I get up and go to work and do normal things like normal people and I don't randomly kidnap babies anymore, doesn't mean I'm in a good place. And you don’t know what I need. Fuck you!”

Lip took one last drag of his joint and tossed it onto the ground. He sighed. “You're right. I don't know, because you never fucking talk about it. You don't talk to any of us.” 

Ian knew he couldn’t argue with that. 

“And it fucking astounds me,” Lip continued, speaking slowly and deliberately, “that you don't talk to any of us - your fucking family - yet Mickey Milkovich is somehow the answer to all your problems. What _is it_ about that guy?”

 _What is it about that guy._ The words repeated in Ian’s head. _It's everything. He's everything._

“You don't have to understand it, Lip. Just accept it.” 

There was silence between them; a quiet, unspoken power struggle that would determine who would back down first. 

Eventually Lip sighed, slowly and loudly. He knew when he was beaten. “Yeah. Maybe...”

“You don’t need to worry anyway, because he doesn’t want.. doesn’t want anything to do with me,” Ian’s voice cracked. He hated hearing himself say the words - vocalising them suddenly made everything feel more real and utterly hopeless, but he wanted his brother to know, to make him wonder if he’d willed this problem into existence.

Lip’s demeanour changed, suddenly. He turned his head to look at Ian, curiosity painted all over his face. Curiosity and something else that Ian couldn’t quite assign to an emotion. “Really? What did he say?”

Ian shook his head and pinched his eyes. “He kissed me like there was no fucking tomorrow and then told me he was done with me. That I’m not gonna fuck him over again.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

Neither of them said anything for a minute. Ian figured Lip would prefer not to hear about their kiss. His brother wasn't homophobic but he never had much to add when the conversation turned to the things Ian actually did with other men, especially Mickey.

“How’d you know he was back, anyway?” Ian asked, changing the subject slightly.

Lip leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, clenching and unclenching his fists nervously. “Saw him at The Alibi.”

 _The Alibi. Of course._ The missing pieces started falling into place when Ian remembered how Lip had seemed to want to talk to him when he’d arrived home from dinner with Nate. Lip had been really drunk that night. Ian couldn’t imagine his brother passing up an opportunity to try and fuck with Mickey. “You talk to him?”

Lip groaned, trying his best to sound bored with this nightmare conversation of his own making. “Probably just warned him off a bit.”

Ian sprang to his feet, angry, alert and towering over his brother, spitting words down at him.“What? What did you fucking say?” He knew that Mickey wouldn’t be dissuaded with the threat of violence, so it had to be have been something more. Something to hit him where it would really hurt. 

“Listen, calm down.. Let’s just wait a minute and take a few deep breaths,” Lip said, standing up and placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders. Ian sensed Lip’s fear of him and hated it and loved it all at once.

“Just tell me what you fucking said!” Ian demanded, running one hand through his hair, his other hand pawing at his eyes and forehead with the heel of his palm. “FUCK!”

Lip took a deep breath and grabbed at Ian’s arms, holding them down at his side. “I might have mentioned Nate, and said that you and him were… getting pretty serious. Meeting the family and all that shit.”

“And yet, you know _fuck all_ about him, apart from the fact that he exists,” Ian growled. 

Lip nodded, staring off into the darkness.

Now it made sense. The way Mickey recoiled from him at the diner - Ian knew Mickey wouldn’t waste his time with him if he thought he was already in a serious relationship. It would be the fucking icing on Mickey’s cake of reasons not to ever get back together with him.

 _Fucking Lip_. _Fucking Lip and his fucking mouth._

Ian felt like a caged wild animal, hot blooded and full of rage, desperate to escape with nowhere to go. 

“Thanks a fucking lot, _brother_ ,” Ian hissed, wrangling his right arm free from Lip’s control. He reached out and violently shoved Lip’s chest which sent him falling backwards against the house. He then walked past his brother and sunk a knee into his chest. “Good talk.”

 

* * *

“So.. do you want to tell me why you showed up here all all breathless and sweaty at 10:30 at night?” Nate asked, drawing slow circles over Ian’s naked back. “Not that I mind one little bit.”

“Not really, no,” Ian replied, propping himself up on his elbows and fumbling pointlessly with his phone.

“You don’t want to. But you’re going to, right?”

Ian sighed. “I had a fight with my brother.”

“Lip, I take it? The one I _haven’t_ met.”

Ian nodded. He should have known better than to go running to Nate after the fight he and Lip had. Nate used to be the one person who Ian could trust to accept his moods and his half answers and silences, but he was starting to ask questions, starting to tease information from him.

“I almost pushed him down the stairs,” Ian added voluntarily, guilt rising in his stomach. He really did feel bad about that. It reminded Ian of the incident with Kenyatta, but he’d only shoved Lip, not tried to kill him, so they probably both had the meds to thank for that.

“Ouch. What were you fighting about?”

Ian didn’t know what to say. Nate didn’t want to know the truth, not really, and his entire existence seemed so perfect, Ian couldn’t imagine Nate ever arguing with anyone. “He thinks he knows what’s best for me,” he offered. Short and sweet. Simple, but true.

“That’s what older brothers are for,” Nate said, matter-of-fact, “But, how’d that end up with Lip almost... ahh, falling down the stairs?”

Ian shifted himself back onto his stomach and groaned into the pillow. He shouldn’t have come here. It was a bad idea. He really didn’t want to be that guy who talks about his ex while laying in bed with his current…. whatever this was. He chose his words carefully. “Because my ex is out of jail and Lip kept it from me because he didn’t think I could handle it.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

Nate laid back down on his back, ran his fingers through his hair, sighing. “Your ex is out of jail,” he repeated the words, for some reason, needing to hear them from his own mouth to fully understand. “And can you handle it?” 

“I cheated on him multiple times, kidnapped his child and then broke up with him in the worst way possible. I don’t feel great about it, but I can handle it.”

“Ian….” Nate sounded genuinely shocked. He turned to face Ian again. “You never told me any of that.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not exactly my favourite memory.” he sighed. “Bipolar disorder. Shit happens.”

“Look, it's in the past now. It happened, but you’re better now and there's no point dwelling on it,” Nate said, simply. “You were young and made some mistakes. It must have been.. what? Getting towards two years ago? It’s okay to put it behind you.” He planted a kiss on Ian’s forehead. 

Ian could tell that Nate considered the person Ian was before they met, to be another person entirely - young and immature and by some coincidence happened to be mentally ill. Just a teenager who’d done some stupid shit that Nate didn’t think he’d ever have to bear witness to because the Ian he knew was older and wiser and dutifully medicated. Stable. _For now._

“Wish it was that easy,” Ian muttered.

“First loves are always the most painful.”

“No, that’s not-” Ian stopped himself. It wasn’t just the fact that Mickey was his first love, or his only love, it was more than that. He and Mickey weren’t just a thing that happened once. Bipolar disorder happened, and if it weren’t for that, they’d still be together. Ian was fucking sure of it. It was one of the few things he _was_ sure of.

“You were teenagers and you guys obviously broke up for a reason,” Nate continued. “This guy is a convicted felon, Ian. You deserve better than someone like that.”

_Someone like that._

Ian could understand if Nate had been saying these things out of jealousy or annoyance - they were after all, laying in Nate’s bed having just fucked, talking about Mickey - but there was something else - Nate’s world view was bordering on one dimensional. Black and white. Everything in its place - yes or no, good or bad. But if being with Mickey had taught Ian anything at all, it was that nothing was that simple or straightforward. Ian fought the urge to defend Mickey, to explain to Nate that it was actually a serious relationship, and everything that happened really was all his own fault. _Mickey did everything right, he stood by me, he cared about me, he gave me everything I had ever wanted from him, and I pushed him away because everything had fucking changed and I felt like he was pitying me and I didn’t want to burden him -_

Ian sat straight up in bed, jolted completely awake at the surprise revelation he’d just had. He shut his eyes briefly, to concentrate on that thought, to hold it there. 

_I broke up with Mickey because I felt like he was pitying me and I didn’t want to burden him._

“I have to take my nighttime meds,” Ian said, jumping out of of bed and pulling on his boxers. He grabbed his phone and his pills and headed to the kitchen. He needed to be alone with his utter relief that he’d finally found the answer the question that had been plaguing him for almost two years. It felt like a migraine finally dissipating, leaving clarity and lightness in its place. But knowing the answer was one thing. What he was going to do with this new information was another, entirely.

He leaned over the edge of the balcony of the apartment, staring out at the blanket of lights that was the city of Chicago viewed from the privilege of the north. It was almost possible to forget the squalor of the Southside and its grey haze of disadvantage that felt like the weather, but didn’t ever truly lift, not even in the summer. Ian unlocked his phone and started scrolling through pictures of Mickey. Mickey giving the finger, Mickey drinking a beer mid-swig, sleeping, making fists with his FUCK U-UP tattooed fingers. Mickey’s fingers. Those fingers that knew Ian so well, that explored almost every inch of Ian’s body, that knew what Ian liked, that had fought with him and held and caressed him.

 _I miss you, Mick._

Ian saw that there was a voicemail from Lip. He wanted Ian to text or call so he knew that he was okay. Lip could fuck off. He listened, for surely the thousandth time, to the indifferent robotic voice telling him he still had one undeleted voicemail; reminding him that there was some unfinished and unresolved memento of his life sitting out there in the ether, waiting to be dealt with and then tidily removed. He’d only played the voicemail itself once, a year ago, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to erase it, to negate its existence. Maybe he never would.

He keyed in 1 to listen to the message.

_Alright shithead, this is like the two hundredth time I’m calling you and you not picking up! I’m started to get fucking homicidal. Call me the fuck back, Ian! I’m worried about you. I love you. Call me back._

Ian rewound the message, swiping gently, trying to stop it in exactly the right place.

_I love you. Call me back._

_I love you_. 

He knew Mickey had loved him, but he hadn’t really expected him to say it. Ian knew it had been hard for Mickey to say. And the last thing Mickey would have expected, would be Ian breaking up with him afterwards; a cruel punishment for his most honest moment. A sick joke.

_I broke up with Mickey because I felt like he was pitying me and I didn’t want to burden him._

Ian had changed Mickey into the person he'd always wanted him to be and then kicked him to the kerb. He shuddered.

“I’m sorry, Mick” Ian said out loud, the lump in his throat choking his words and distorting his voice, so he barely recognised it as his own. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Gallavich kiss, cranky Mickey and Lip's comeuppance! 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting :)


	6. Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house was as dilapidated as the last time Ian had seen it. He turned his head and took in his surroundings. Bedsheets used as curtains. The fan balanced haphazardly in the window. Walls stained with water and mildew and chipped in familiar patterns. It looked the same as the last morning he was there. Hell, it even smelled the same. A shiver ran through his body and he broke into a cold sweat.

Mickey enjoyed the traditional gay bar hookup thing more than that fucking internet mobile app bullshit. Turns out he liked it a helluva lot more if they talked to him or bought him a drink first. He also got quite a bit of satisfaction from turning dudes down. He figured it was some sort of power trip that made him feel important and less like a rebounding little bitch. Too thin, too fat, too old, too young, too eager, too masculine. You had to meet quite the criteria if you wanted a piece of Mickey Milkovich - really consider yourself lucky. 

He had started to become intimately acquainted with the alleyways and sidestreets around Boystown. Or at least the walls that he faced while some skinny dude was riding his arse. In the back alleys of Chicago, Mickey didn’t feel like much of a giver. Sure, he loved being on the receiving end of a warm mouth, but there was no way Mickey was going to return the favour in some alley behind a gay club, with a random he’d just met. You had to be Ian Gallagher if you wanted Mickey to do that, or at the very least try and get to know him a little bit, and maybe, if you were lucky, he’d give a little on the third or fourth hookup. If he was feeling generous.

Mickey sat up in bed, lighting a cigarette and chugging the dregs of the beer he’d left next to his bed the night before. The beer was stale and flat, but he didn’t care. He turned his head slightly and studied the naked eighteen year old laying on his side still sleeping, the sheets around his waist, his torso and an arm exposed, rising and falling softly with each breath. Mickey stared in wonder at his own hand as he lightly stroked the kid’s arm, and then as he moved it under the sheets to the curve of his beautiful arse, for no reason other than because he could. Before Ian, Mickey would never have been able to do that. It struck him that he _had_ been right at The Alibi all those years ago; what he and Ian had, made him free.

Luke. That’s what he said his name was. He was cute, with his blonde hair and blue eyes and youthful looking face. He was pretty without looking a thing like Ian. Luke was also happy to talk, about anything really. He was immature and silly and Mickey was largely irritated and bored by Luke’s conversation topics but he appreciated the fact that he made the effort, that he was more than just a staring contest and ten minutes in a back alley. And for possessing that characteristic, Luke had received the dubious reward of being only the second person that Mickey had fucked in that bed. On four separate occasions. Allowing him to sleep on Ian’s side of the bed, no less. They'd even watched a DVD together and maybe they'd also kissed a few times and it hadn't been the worst thing in the world. Svetlana had even dubbed Luke, _Yellow Lab_ , for which Mickey felt strangely appreciative. 

Mickey was yanked back to reality by a knocking at the door. He glanced at the time on his phone - 8:30am. Who the fuck was knocking on his door at such a ridiculous hour on a Saturday? Iggy and his other useless brothers were away on a run, so he decided to ignore it. More knocking, a little louder this time. It was starting to give Mickey a headache. 

“Ah, fucksake,” Mickey groaned, dragging himself out of bed and sliding into his boxers and a sleeveless shirt. The person at the door knocked again. “We gotta child sleepin’ in here! Ever thinka that, fucktard?” Mickey yelled, as he made his way to the door. He was aware of the irony that his irritated yelling was far louder than the knock at the door, but whatever.

He flung open the front door for maximum intimidation, as was the Milkovich way, recoiling slightly at the blinding morning sunlight beating down upon his face. 

“The fuck you want?” he snapped, squinting, his eyes still adjusting to the changing light. He still wasn’t able to see who was at the door, but his greeting would have been the same, regardless.

“Milkovich,” the visitor said, in that bored, apathetic tone that Micky instantly recognised and loathed. He forced his eyes to adjust to the light and the figure standing on his doorstep came into focus slowly. Lip Gallagher. Just as he had suspected.

“The fuck you want? One of you Gallaghers take a shit that you needed the world to know about, or somethin’?” Those fucking Gallaghers. They had either the best or worst timing in the entire fucking world. Just when you thought you were finally free of them, one of them would show up somewhere with a tyre iron or feelings to share, or a kiss. But this wasn’t the right Gallagher, so Mickey hoped it was none of those options.

“Wanted to talk to you,” Lip replied witheringly. “About Ian.” 

Mickey’s weakness. He felt his heart skip a beat, his blood pressure rising. Had something happened to Ian? He suddenly remembered the blonde sleeping in his bed and took a step forward on the doorstep, pulling the door behind him.

“Ian? Is something wrong? Is he okay?” Mickey asked, instantly alert. He desperately wanted to sound blase, but the concern in his voice betrayed him, as it always fucking did when it came to Ian.

“Relax,” Lip rolled his eyes. “He’s fine.” Relief washed over Mickey’s body, and he was sure it was obvious on his face.

“I’m here to tell you, you need to talk to him.” Lip continued. “He’s been moping about for weeks since you showed up at his work and I just can’t take anymore of his fucking silent brooding. For my own sanity, I’m telling you - just talk to him.” Lip exhaled smoke and rocked backwards and forwards quickly on his heels, like this chore of a conversation was encroaching upon the many important things he had to do during summer break on a Saturday.

Mickey felt a wave of pleasant emotion in his chest at the thought of talking to Ian, and on instinct, became immediately defensive. “The fuck about?” He folded his arms over his chest.

Lip sighed, shaking his head slowly, in disbelief. “I don’t know, Mickey? Use your words. Talk about you two. Whatever is or isn’t going on between you. Just talk. Get back together or don’t get back together - whatever. Go on a fucking date for all I care! Just do something.” 

“A date?” Mickey repeated. “What? Where?” He didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with him this morning. Maybe it was just too early for him to be engaging in topics that he wanted to pretend he didn’t give a shit about.

“Jesus!” Lip laughed, incredulously, wondering yet again what on earth his brother saw in this guy. “That’s your takeaway from this conversation? I don’t know. Wherever Milkovich trash goes when they go on a date - do that. Like I give a shit. Just talk to him.”

Mickey chewed on his lip, mulling over this strange turn of events.

“It's been almost two years and you two idiots still can't get each other out of your systems.” Lip stared at Mickey for a good ten seconds or more, then added, “Let that sink in, yeah?” He then turned on his heels to leave, an arm in the air, giving Mickey the finger as he walked back in the direction of home.

Mickey retreated back inside, painfully aware that he had just let Lip have the last word, and unsure what to think about their conversation. He returned to his room, to find Luke taking a photo of himself, naked from the waist up and still in bed. Mickey screwed his face up in a mix of confusion and disgust at the narcissistic display. “The fuck you doin’?”

“Taking a selfie,” Luke replied, the intonation in his young voice making his reply sound like a question. “I thought of like, the perfect facebook status to go with it.”

Mickey groaned. This guy was only four years younger than him but he couldn’t understand him at all. He wasn’t Southside, so it was safe to assume Luke’s life had been a lot easier than his, allowing him to grow up at the normal rate, and engage in typical teenage pursuits. “Well, what was it then?”

“Getting my cock sucked and slumming it at the little house in the ghetto,” Luke grinned, as proud as if he’d painted the Sistine fucking Chapel.

Mickey was a little amused, but mostly extremely irritated. He wanted this kid out of his bed and out of his house. “Alright, party’s over, Shakespeare. Got shit to do,” he growled, picking up Luke’s clothes from the floor and throwing them at him. As if a switch inside Mickey had suddenly been turned off, this kid was no longer doing it for him. Not even a little bit. There was just something about people who weren’t Southside talking shit about Southside. Mickey didn’t have time for it. 

“Get!” Mickey yelled, only semi-aggressively, but enough to send the teenager scampering home, belting up his jeans, shoes still in his hands as he fled the Milkovich house. 

Mickey sat down on the edge of his bed and replayed the conversation with Lip, in his mind. Had Ian sent Lip to talk to him? Would it even make any difference to Mickey, if he had? Maybe. But he couldn't imagine Ian sending Lip around to do that, so what the fuck was going on with Ian that had inspired Lip to do an about face and order him to talk to his brother? 

Mickey thought of all the other times he and Ian should have talked, but hadn’t. Their timing had never aligned. Back when Ian was still Ian, Mickey hadn’t been able to admit his feelings for Ian to himself, forget saying them out loud. And when he had finally been able to, Ian was gone. His body had remained but his mind was somewhere else, entirely. Lost.

He knew he should talk to Ian. Hell, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to. Seeing Ian at that diner, kissing him, had only intensified all the feelings he’d been trying desperately to purge, the feelings he’d been trying to deny, suppress and then fuck away. None of which seemed to be working anyway. He had hooked up with Luke multiple times, because he had wanted to see if he could do the things that he and Ian used to do without thinking of the annoying redhead. Turns out he almost could. The trouble was, he didn’t enjoy it anywhere near as much. It was like forcing himself to enjoy decaf coffee. Trying to replace Ian just felt like he was denying himself something. Something he wanted, probably even needed. Something he missed. Because Ian still inspired the same physical and emotional reaction in him that he always had. There was no way he could convince himself anymore that he didn’t still have feelings for Ian. He had feelings, alright. He just didn't know what they meant, and with Ian’s serious fucking Northside boyfriend, he didn’t know what the fuck to do with them, either. 

And there was something else; something that had started as a quiet whisper in the back of his head, that had gradually grown into a profound, insistent scream that plagued him whenever he thought about Ian, which was most of the fucking time, if he was honest. Mickey felt as though he didn't know who Ian was anymore. After everything they’d been through and everything they’d shared, it was a sad and terrifying thought. They’d spent the best and worst parts of their teenage years growing up together, but by the time they’d broken up, Ian almost felt like a stranger to him. The kid who had turned up at Mickey's bullshit wedding begging him not to marry Svetlana, that had forced his hand and made Mickey come out - that was Ian. But the guy who looked him in the eye and blithely told him he'd made a porno, who had sat on the front steps of the Gallagher house and sneered at Mickey as he poured his heart out? Mickey didn't know that guy. He was pretty sure he didn't like that guy. That wasn't Ian. It looked like him, talked like him, but it wasn't him. 

Mickey felt a sharp pang of guilt for holding Ian to his behaviour while hypomanic. He knew he probably shouldn't. He knew it was probably yet another reason why Mickey Milkovich was a fucking arsehole. But what he knew in his brain and what he felt in his heart were two entirely different things - the two were constantly at war with each other and had been since the day Ian had shown up to his house with the tyre iron. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder, after everything Ian had been through, and after the meds, which Mickey assumed he was taking, what was left of that sweet kid he had fallen in love with? Being on the receiving end of Ian's erratic behaviour had really fucking hurt. It still fucking hurt. He was probably permanently scarred. And because Mickey's mind liked nothing more than to torture him, his most painful memories of Ian were also the most vivid. And the most recent.

Mickey figured nothing ever ended well between them, regardless, whether they talked or they didn’t. Maybe talking to Ian would help sort out this mess inside his head. Maybe it wouldn't. He figured it was worth a fucking shot. What did he really have to lose?

* * *

“To free alcohol!,” cheers erupted from the pool in the backyard. “To summer!”, “To Gallaghers and Balls!”, “To Gallaballs!”. That one was Fiona. Ian heard his older sister laughing at her own joke and laughed along with her from his bedroom, pulling a tshirt on over his head. Vee had brought around a couple of boxes of alcohol that had been incorrectly delivered to The Alibi, and now a Gallagher pool party was in full swing in the backyard. Ian wished he were staying home; their pool parties were always a good time.

Ian had promised Nate he would hang at his house tonight, but honestly, he really didn’t feel like it. He knew he’d probably always had one foot out the door when it came to his and Nate’s relationship, but ever since Mickey had shown up at the diner he’d felt himself slipping further and further away. Ian was pretty sure that Mickey had taken off after they kissed because of what Lip had said to him. It was a shitty situation, but Ian could work with it. His head was no longer filled with the agonising thoughts of his and Mickey’s past. It was now also consumed with possibilities, all the what ifs and the maybes, the things Ian could say, the way that Mickey might respond. The things they could do if they got back together. _When_ they got back together. It was becoming impossible for Ian to think about anything - anyone - else. 

For Ian, Mickey was no longer just the memory of a person, sitting abstract and untouchable in prison. Mickey was once again tangible and real, living not five minutes away from him. He could walk over to Mickey’s place and knock on his front door if he wanted to. He could throw rocks at his window in the middle of the night like they did in the movies. He could barge in and demand Mickey sit down and shut the fuck up and listen to him. 

Ian could do all those things, if only he could work out what to say.

He sighed and grabbed his backpack, heading out down the back porch steps to say a begrudging goodbye before leaving to catch the El to Nate’s. One of the posts on the staircase bannister was broken - a casualty of his fight with Lip a week or so ago. Ian ground his teeth slightly at the memory, now immortalised in splintered broken wood, unlikely to ever be fixed as long as the Gallaghers lived there. He looked away.

“IAN!” Debbie yelled from the pool. “Don’t go.. Stay! Jump in!” 

“He’s going to see his boyfriend,” Carl mused. “The rich one.” Ian laughed quietly at Carl adding that clarification as though there was more than one boyfriend. Ian knew that he had most likely listened in on some of the conversations he and Lip had been having about Mickey recently.

“What the hell? How many of ‘em are there?” Vee asked, Carl’s statement not lost on her.

“I dunno, Vee” Fiona shook her head, amused. “But I can almost guarantee they’re all hotter than any guys we’ve pulled - no offence, Kev.”

“Uhh - none taken?” Kev muttered, busy securing floaties to his twins’ arms.

“Shoulda invited him ‘round, Ian,” Debbie said, preparing to catch Liam who was steeling himself to jump into the pool.

“Yeah what’s the problem? He don’t like us?” Fiona laughed again, knowing that could actually be the case. The Gallagher family rarely made a good impression.

“Nah, it’s just -, ” Ian started, furrowing his brow in concentration for a brief second. “I can’t imagine him in a pool.” That was true, Ian couldn’t imagine Nate considering one of their pool parties worth messing up his hair for. 

Ian’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he felt a small twinge of guilt for talking about Nate behind his back. _He wants to know if I’ve left, yet,_ Ian mused, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Except the text wasn’t from Nate. He re-read the message another two times, barely able to believe it. 

“Uhh.. change of plans, maybe? Back later.” Ian dashed around the side of the house, his body filled with the anticipation of seeing the person who was standing at the front of their yard waiting for him.

 

His best friend was leaning up against their front gate, combat boots, ripped black skinny jeans, her arms folded and head down, bleach blonde hair obscuring her face. 

“Mandy!” he exclaimed. His old friend looked exactly the same as he had remembered her. Except for the bruises. Those were new.

“Hey doofus,” she said, playfully punching her old best friend in the arm. 

“Mandy, it’s so good to see you! I’ve missed you. Where were you? Last time I heard from you, you were still in Indiana?” Ian put a hand up to her face, lightly brushing the purple and black area under eye and cheek. He felt rage starting to smoulder in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to fucking hurt whoever had done this. _Deep breaths, deep breaths, Ian._ “But what happened? Who did this to you? FUCK.”

“Have a fuckin’ guess,” Mandy replied, her voice monotone, a flash of embarrassment passing over her face as she looked down at the ground. 

Ian clenched his jaw in anger. _Kenyatta_. It had been at least two years since Mandy had left Chicago for Indiana and Kenyatta had been beating her all this time. _I could have prevented this. I didn’t have to kill him, but I could have made sure he left and didn’t come back._ Ian ran his fingers through his hair aggressively, in frustration.

“He’s not getting away with this. Not this time. Where is he?” Ian vowed, glancing around them, half expecting Kenyatta to appear from behind a bush, like some macabre party trick. He pulled Mandy into a hug. 

“I can’t stay, Ian. I left Kenyatta but he’ll find me. I just... “ her voice was shaking. She swallowed and took a deep breath and continued. “I just wanted to come and see you, before I end up a Jane Doe on the news.”

“What?” Ian growled, breaking the hug but leaving his hands on her shoulders. He felt sickened by her words. Mandy was a Milkovich and having been raised in that house with her brothers and Terry, she was not easily frightened. If Mandy was scared, it was pretty fucking serious.

“Okay, just stay for a bit. A couple of days. We’ll figure something out,” Ian nodded, desperately trying to reassure her. “Don’t run. Not until we’ve tried to figure something out, at least. We have loads of alcohol inside - let’s get drunk?” A million thoughts and questions were racing around in his head, his stomach churning from the confusing mixture of anger, sadness and excitement his best friend’s return had inspired in him. 

“Let’s drink some beers under the El?” Mandy suggested, a smile creeping onto her face. Ian knew he probably shouldn’t drink again for a while, but a beer or two wouldn’t hurt if he drank slowly. He was easily convinced when he wanted to be.

“That sounds trashy enough to be just like old times,” he agreed.

 

Ian couldn’t remember the last time he had sat drinking underneath the El. It must have been the summer before he enlisted, and before Lip went to college. It had always been more of an Ian and Lip activity, rather than he and Mickey. Mickey had never been interested, probably because you couldn’t really fuck under the El, especially not two dudes, unless you really wanted to get bashed. It was just as seedy as Ian remembered it; cans and cigarette butts and who knows what else strewn everywhere in the long grass, the faint smell of piss percolating in the warm air and wafting back and forth in the breeze.

Mandy had polished off her second beer, and Ian was three quarters through sipping slowly at his first, when he remembered he was supposed to be hanging out at Nate’s house tonight. He should have been almost there by now. He hurriedly fired off a text to Nate while he was still able to think clearly.

“So tell me what has been happening for the last two years, at least?” Ian asked, feeling slightly tipsy, and somewhat more prepared to hear the details of Mandy’s life which had led to her standing bruised and defeated outside his house.

“Kenyatta… can’t hold down a job, that’s what’s happened,” Mandy offered, stabbing at the ground between her knees with a spoon she had found earlier in the grass.

Ian was confused. “So he took it out on you?”

“Ian…” her voice trailed off.

“You can tell me anything, Mands. You know that.”

Mandy sighed, and paused for a minute. “So, he got me bringing in the money, ya know?”

Ian knew there was subtext here, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Or he didn’t want to. “What does that mean?”

Mandy laughed humourlessly, a cynical, jaded laugh. “So I wasn’t working in a waffle house wearing a squirrel hat, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

“So like.. hooking?” Ian said quietly, in disbelief, and Mandy nodded. “Jesus christ, Mandy.”

Mandy fell silent and Ian realised he was completely out of his depth now without Mickey in his corner. He wished he’d done more - that they’d all done more - to get Kenyatta out of her life, when they’d had the opportunity.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, turning to his friend and putting a hand on her knee. “You don’t have to do that anymore. That’s over. Done. I’ll help you.”

Mandy smiled, half-heartedly. “Thanks Ian. Don’t feel guilty though - it’s not your fault. Shit happens. Anyway, I stole a bunch of his money and just took off a day or so ago,” Mandy continued. Her words were telling an awful story, but her voice maintained that deep, breathless, blithe quality it always had, as if she were relaying something annoying that Mickey or Lip had done. “I still had my phone and when he realised I’d taken the cash he kept texting, sayin’ he was comin’ for me. I got real paranoid and chucked my phone off a bridge in case he traced it somehow and bought this shitty burner phone.”

“Good thinking.” Ian said, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her towards him. He felt Mandy rest her head on his shoulders and sigh deeply. Ian desperately wanted to help, but aside from letting her stay at his place for a while, he couldn’t think how to.

“Have you talked to Mickey?” Ian asked. He needed to know if Mickey or her other brothers were in the loop. It would be a lot easier if they were.

“Nah, haven’t talked to any of them. Haven’t talked to anyone from Southside since I left.” Mandy cracked open another beer and handed one to Ian. “So what about you? If you don’t know if I’ve talked to him or not, then you two aren’t….?”

Ian opened his second beer and took a large gulp. If they were going to talk about him and Mickey, he’d need to do more than sip gingerly at his beer.

“Nah, we’re not.”

 

* * *

Ian had filled Mandy in on everything, almost everything, she’d missed over the last two years. Kidnapping Yev, the psych ward, his bipolar disorder. Breaking up with Mickey. Mickey going to jail for punching a cop. 

“I'm glad you are feeling better than you were, Ian. I was real worried about you back then,” Mandy said, sincerely. “My fucking idiot brother, though. What was he thinking? He musta known he’d end up in big boy jail, this time.”

Ian swallowed guiltily. He hadn’t told Mandy his theory as to why Mickey had punched the cop. He told himself it was only a theory, afterall.

It was dark by the time Ian and Mandy had finished off their beers and were stumbling back to Ian’s house, arms around each other, using one another for balance. Ian had chugged his second beer and was very drunk. More drunk than he knew was good for him these days.

“Still can’t believe you and Mickey are done,” she slurred, the disbelief in her voice exaggerated by her drunkenness. “Thought you guys were meant to fucking be.”

Ian felt the familiar lump rising in his throat. “Yeah,” he sighed, rubbing his hand on his forehead. _I thought so, too._ Fuck it, he still thought they were. He believed it. He had to. 

“So d’you love him?” Mandy asked, finally.

 _Yes. I never fucking stopped._ “I think so, yeah,” Ian replied, managing to remain reserved, despite being drunk enough to shout his feelings for Mickey from a rooftop if he thought it would get him back. 

“And you want him back?” Mandy continued.

“Now things aren’t quite so fucking fucked up.. I wanna see him again, I wanna apologise. I just.. want him,” Ian slurred, kicking a stone onto the road and almost pulling them both down onto the footpath.

“But you’ve both been sitting around on your arses avoiding each other, for weeks?” Mandy said, incredulously.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Fuck. Do something about it, then. Go get him, Ian. Stop pussying out.” Mandy demanded. “I swear to god, you two are both fuckin’ pussies. I used to think it was just him, but it’s you too.”

Ian thought Mandy was probably right about that.

Mandy rubbed a hand on Ian’s arm. She decided then and there that even if nothing else came from her reluctant return to the Southside, she was going to at least try to get her idiot brother and her best friend back together again. “Everything will work out, Ian. It really will,” she purred.

“Yeah, it will,” Ian acquiesced. “For all of us, Mands.”

They continued stumbling back down the street towards the Gallagher house, stopping every now and then to laugh and yell drunken obscenities into the sky. 

* * *

Ian had thought about how to solve the Kenyatta problem for a solid two days but had failed to arrive at a suitable plan. The Gallagher’s usually employed Lip’s help whenever they needed to come up with some scheme to get them out of a jam. But Ian was still too annoyed at his brother to ask for help. He didn’t know why everyone always went running to Lip as soon as shit got difficult. Sure, he was the _genius of the family,_ but it’s not like the rest of them were total idiots. Lip was just smart, he wasn’t a fucking god or anything. Fuck him. Ian wasn’t going to bother with Lip.He knew Mandy wouldn’t be keen on it, anyway.

Mandy was becoming increasingly anxious as each day passed. Her nerves were also rubbing off on Ian. What if Kenyatta headed straight to the Milkovich house? If Svetlana and Yev were still living there, he couldn’t bear the thought of Yev being put in any danger. At the very least he should give them a heads up.

“I think we’re going to have to involve your brothers,” Ian had said solemnly. 

Mandy had agreed. 

“We’ll go tomorrow.”

Ian’s night of drinking had had an effect on his medication and he was feeling like he might unravel completely at the slightest aggravation. If he was going to see Mickey, he needed to be able to hold himself together. He could barely sleep that night; his mind a swirling mass of possible scenarios that could play out when he knocked on the Milkovich front door the next day. He just needed Mickey to see that he was doing okay now, that after all this time and after everything that had happened, he still resembled the Ian that Mickey had loved once.

When sleep finally did come, his subconscious mind tortured him with his dreams. He dreamed of Mickey being arrested again. Mickey punching him in the face. Mickey happily married to a man. When morning finally arrived, Ian felt relieved - the chirping of the sparrows and the light streaming through his window like silent permission to finally give up on sleep all together.

Ian’s phone buzzed with a text message as he and Mandy walked together to the Milkovich house. It was a text from Nate, asking him to come over. “Fuck.” Ian muttered, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “Not today.”

“Who was that? Your boyfriend, or something?” Mandy teased. She had to ask because that was the kind of normal shit best friends talked about. Not discussing the best way to dispose of abusive exes.

Ian considered lying. After their conversation about Mickey the other night, he felt extremely guilty having to explain Nate. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. It was partly true. “He’s just this guy. He’s nice and all, I just don’t.. I’m not feeling it. I mean, I like him...” He was unsure how to finish that sentence.

“But he’s not Mickey.” Mandy stated, matter-of-fact, as blunt yet insightful as ever. 

“Guess so, yeah,” Ian laughed quietly. Mandy always managed to get to the heart of an issue quickly which Ian had always found fascinating considering the many layers under which her brother hid his truths. Then again, Mickey was probably the reason why she was so good at it.

“He from around here?” she asked.

“No, no. He’s Northside, through and through,” Ian giggled.

“Right,” she nodded. “Rich?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice car? Nice apartment?”

Ian hummed his agreement.

“Sounds like an upgrade, to me,” she joked, punching Ian on the arm. “Just kidding. I know the heart wants what it wants. Or some crap.”

Ian snorted a laugh and put his arm around Mandy’s shoulders. They continued their walk in silence. 

Ian felt his anxiety rising with every step they made towards Mickey’s street. He shoved his free hand into his jeans pocket and stared down at his feet, feeling the increasingly familiar urge to run - and he might have, had his desire to protect Mandy and Yev and Svetlana not been so strong. 

He thought about all the times before his bipolar diagnosis, when he had known there was a good chance he’d end up getting his arse kicked - fighting against Mickey, for Mickey, with Mickey - and how he had always just shown up, scared but brave and determined, fueled by his unwavering belief in what was right. The threat of a beatdown had never deterred him if the cause was great enough. Yet here he was now, an adult, so scared to knock on a door for fear of what the stress may do to his mind, that he was considering running in the opposite direction for as long as his legs carried him. He felt pathetic. He needed to fucking snap out of it.

They rounded the last corner to stand opposite the Milkovich house. He’d avoided this entire street for close to two years. Now here they were with the building exactly as they had left it, as though it had been waiting for them.

“I can’t fucking believe I am back here,” Mandy muttered under her breath as they crossed the street. “Holy shit! I had no idea there was grass under there.” The front yard of the house which was once strewn with every imaginable type of garbage was now mostly clear, with long grass and weeds reclaiming the space formerly occupied by junk.

They opened the gate and walked through, Ian first, Mandy trailing slightly.

“Mandy-,” Ian started to say something, but his mouth was dry and his mind blank. His heart was beating in his ears. He took a deep, shaky breath and climbed up the steps to the front door.

He knocked. A moment passed without movement inside the house. He turned back to look at Mandy, silently praying she’d suggest they give up all together, that they go back to Ian's house and hide from everyone for the rest of their lives. 

Mandy only shrugged. 

Ian tried knocking again, a little louder and more insistent this time. 

“If you’re here to convert me, I’ve already fuckin’ found Jesus-,” Mickey flung the door open, cursing, a half-empty beer in his FUCK hand.

“Ia-” he started. “Gallagher,” he corrected himself. He raised an expectant eyebrow.

Ian winced at being relegated to Gallagher, once more. He felt fifteen years old again.

“The fuck, man?” Mickey couldn’t understand why the fuck his house was now a revolving door of Gallaghers. But at least it wasn’t fucking Lip. Could be worse.

“I’m sorry I’m here, I just.. we didn’t know what else to do,” Ian stammered, at a loss for words. None of his ruminating or overthinking had paid off. It never fucking did.

“Hey Mickey,” Mandy offered, joining Ian on the top step. 

Mickey studied his sister standing in front of him. She was okay. Sure, she had bruises on her face, but hell, she’d had bruises when she left too. Right now she was alive and looking pretty much as he remembered her. She was safe again so long as they were together. 

“Mandy,” Mickey said, his voice thick with relief. He composed himself, then added, “What the fuck you two arseholes doing here?” 

Ian and Mandy exchanged awkward, concerned glances. 

“Uhh.. guess you better come in, then.” Mickey turned and kicked the door open for them with his foot.

The house was as dilapidated as the last time Ian had seen it. He turned his head and took in his surroundings. Bedsheets used as curtains. The fan balanced haphazardly in the window. Walls stained with water and mildew and chipped in familiar patterns. It looked the same as the last morning he was there. Hell, it even smelled the same. A shiver ran through his body and he broke into a cold sweat. That was the morning he took Yevgeny, after telling Mickey he’d made a porno, as casually as if he’d had the car washed. _You need to pack your shit. You’re sick. You need help._ Mickey’s words from that day rang out inside Ian’s head as if he were saying them all over again. Ian glanced nervously around him, anxious and panicked. This was not how he wanted Mickey to see him. Not at all.

“Aight, well I was just givin’ this one some lunch.” Mickey gestured to Yevgeny. “Sveta is out shopping and shit.”

Ian turned around and watched as Mickey picked Yev up out of his high chair and bounced him in his arms. The baby had grown so much and now had the same piercing blue eyes as Mickey, which for some reason made Ian feel proud. There was no doubting now who his father was. Ian felt emotion welling in his chest. _I’m sorry Yevgeny. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you._ He guiltily averted his gaze away from the toddler.

“Still a fucking palace, I see,” Mandy muttered looking around her, as she cleared some of the empty beer cans from the couch in the living room and sat down.

Ian remained standing in the middle of the loungeroom, frozen in place. Noticing his awkwardness, Mandy grabbed the waistband of his jeans and pulled him down next to her. He sank down into the cushion next to Mandy.

Mickey sat down in the single armchair next to the couch, placing Yev and a monkey toy on his lap. “The fuck’s going on then? Which one of you two idiots gonna speak?”

Ian continued to stare down at his feet, unable to look at Mickey or Yevgeny. He wanted to leave, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. His leg started jittering uncontrollably. 

Mandy did all the talking and Mickey listened intently while Yevgeny fidgeted on his lap. When Mandy had brought her brother up to speed, he started asking questions. Where was she when she received the last text? What kind of heat is Kenyatta packing? Is he likely to be bringing anyone? 

Ian noted the contradiction of Mickey in neighbourhood badass mode, bouncing his sweet little boy on his lap. He could tell that all the information was ticking over in Mickey’s head. Eventually he would come up with a plan, he’d involve his brothers and then they would argue about who would be doing what. Mickey would try to convince them that he was absolved of any further involvement because he was the one who came up with the idea. Ian had seen it all played out many times before. He felt strangely comforted by the thought of the familiar thuggish pantomime.

“Iggy and Tony are in fuckin’ Wisconsin dropping off some merchandise, but they’ll be back tonight,” Mickey said. He turned his head and glared at Ian’s leg. “Jesus fucking christ. Would you.. Just fucking stop.” Mickey pushed a hand on Ian’s knee, pressing down and holding his leg in place, preventing it from moving.

Ian knew it wasn’t an intimate gesture, but his stomach somersaulted and the hairs on his body stood on end reacting to Mickey’s touch. He felt movement in his crotch and he looked down at Mickey’s U-UP fingers grasping at his knee. He wanted that hand touching him all over his body, leaving burning hot sensation on his skin. He swallowed, and looked up at Mickey without moving his head, briefly catching Mickey’s eyes with his own.

“Mands, you still got the benjamins you stole from that fucktard?” Mickey asked, shifting Yev slightly on his knee. He had the beginnings of a plan floating around in his mind, but it would require cash. 

“Most of it. I only bought food, a bus ticket and this fucking piece of shit phone.”

“Good, I got a plan,” Mickey continued. “But, I’ll tell you this much. I ain’t killing the guy, and I ain’t going back in the joint anytime soon if I can help it. I’ve gone legit now.” He flashed a quick look at Ian to gauge his reaction upon hearing that Mickey Milkovich, neighbourhood thug and serial recidivist was walking the line, but Ian refused to meet his eyes. 

“That’s great Mick,” Mandy half-smiled. “I just want this arsehole out of my life. If shit is going to get real, then get Iggy or Tony to do it, whatever.”

“Should be easy. Think we can frame him, set him up. Ig and Tony can plant a shit ton of meth in his car and call it in,” Mickey stated. “He got priors, right?” He figured it would be a lot easier to put Mandy’s douchebag ex away if he already had a rap sheet. And he seemed too stupid not to.

Mandy nodded. “Possession with intent to sell, here in Illinois.”

“Good. We’ll get rid of him for a long arse time. He’ll still be breathin’ but you won’t need to worry about him no more.” Mickey paused, shifting Yev to a more comfortable spot on his knee. “But Mands, if we do this, you’re done with this guy, aight. No visitin’ him in jail or forgivin’ him or any of that shit. You’re done.”

Ian cast another sideways glance at Mickey. His words stabbing him with their painful familiarity. _No jail visits, no forgiving him, you’re done_. Mickey sounded so steadfast and resolute, Ian wondered whether this was a mantra he had repeated about him. He sighed deeply. Any hope that he and Mickey would ever get back together faded from his body, along with any remaining desire to spend another second in this house. Mickey was over him, he just knew it. Ian wanted to go home, if only he could will himself to stand and walk out. He longed to be invisible so he could disappear without anyone noticing.

“You right here for a bit, Mands?” Ian asked, his voice flat and monotone. “I think I’ll head home.. I’m tired and I’m.. yeah. I just need to go home.” He forced himself to stand. His movements felt awkward and foreign, as though his body didn’t belong to him anymore. 

“Yeah, sure..” Mandy replied, curiously. “I wanna hang out with my nephew for a bit anyway and I’ll catch up with Sveta when she gets back. I’ll come back over, later.”

Ian forced his limbs to move and made his way to the front door. “Later,” he said, turning briefly to look at the three of them in the living room, one more time. Mickey was biting his lip. 

He opened the front door and was about to close it behind him when there was a flurry of movement behind him; a hand grabbing his wrist pulling the front door open again. Mickey’s hand was wrapped around Ian’s wrist, turning him around, preventing him from leaving. They were face to face, their exhaled breaths mingling together. Ian’s skin burned.

“Hey. You… you okay, man?” Mickey stammered, as he stood inches from Ian’s face. He looked into Ian’s eyes, those damn puppy dog eyes, and wished he could communicate telepathically. “D’you wanna talk, or somethin’ sometime, Gallagher. I mean, whatever. If ya want.” There. He’d said the words. And not because Lip had told him to, either, but because he fucking wanted to.

“Talk?” Ian repeated, “Okay.” He placed a hand on Mickey's arm and lightly stroked his bicep. It was a bold move and he didn’t know why he had done it but Mickey didn’t flinch, or move, or bat his hand away. This was a good sign.

Mickey’s breath hitched in his throat. “You name the place, then.” 

Ian considered this. Location was important. Sitting down in a cafe with Mickey seemed like too much, too soon. He’d have to ease Mickey into that some other time. For this to work, he needed the advantage of familiar turf. He had to make Mickey remember what things were like between them when they were good. They had fucked too many times at the dugout, Ian got horny just thinking about the place. The abandoned building was the only other haunt he could think of that wasn’t entirely associated with their dicks.

“Ok, um.. the rooftop?” Ian said nervously. 

“Aight. I’ll text ya,” Mickey nodded. 

“You need my number again?”

“Nah, still got it,” Mickey patted his pocket where he kept his phone. He’d changed his number when he was released, so Ian couldn’t call him. Yet he hadn't been able to bring himself to delete Ian from his phone. Or his fucking life, it would seem. “Seeya later, Gallagher.” 

Mickey disappeared behind the front door and closed it. Ian leaned his head back against the door and stared at the street in front of him in disbelief. It was happening. It was actually finally, fucking happening. They were going to talk. And Mickey had even been the one to suggest it. Ian could finally say everything he had wanted to for so long. 

Ian could literally feel his anxiety leaving his body, being shed like a heavy, invisible blanket. He exhaled deeply. This was it. This was the first tentative step in getting back together, Ian was fucking sure of it. Mandy was right. They fucking _were_ meant to be. The hope that had faded from him so quickly only minutes earlier, came flooding back threefold, tickling the edges of his mouth into a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, sorry! 
> 
> About Svetlana's name: I had a Russian friend called Yekaterina and one day she announced she wanted to be called Katya which is a shortened version of her actual name. In my head-canon, I imagined Svetlana doing this too. Sveta is a Slavic diminutive version of Svetlana.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting :)


	7. Giving an Inch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was another silence. Awkward silence. Ian knew he had to say something. He could feel Mickey waiting for him to speak. Mickey had just shared things with him that he knew would have been difficult, but Ian was giving him nothing in return. It was like the voicemail message, and the conversation on the front steps of his house all over again.

Mickey had shown up at the abandoned building a few hours before he’d texted Ian to get his arse down there. Not because he was eager or anything, he just kind of liked being there. He’d done some of this best thinking alone on top of the building, staring at the sky. He laughed out loud at the thought. Some might argue it had been his only thinking. But it was nice in summer with the breeze and nobody else around. If you ignored the sounds of police sirens and the occasional gunshot, you could almost pretend you were somewhere other than the fucking Southside. Of course, an abandoned rooftop on the Northside would undoubtedly still be nicer and classier than this - probably complete with abandoned pools and abandoned tennis courts, and forgotten piles of money or whatever the fuck else those rich arseholes left behind. But, Ian had suggested this place, so maybe you really could take the boy outta Southside, without taking Southside outta the boy. _Man._ Micky corrected himself. Ian was most definitely a man now.

He took a swig of his beer and threw a large rock in front of him as far as he could.

“Hey!” a voice called out in faux annoyance. Mickey looked up and saw Ian, sauntering around the corner near where his rock had landed. He was wearing a pair of jeans Mickey hadn’t seen before and a striped tshirt that stretched in just the right way across his shoulders. Fuck, he looked good. Mickey forced himself to look away.

Ian picked up the rock and threw it back purposefully above and past Mickey’s head. The low, late evening sunlight was catching in Ian’s red hair and Mickey wanted to run his hands through it. He needed to fucking pull himself together.

“Hey Mick, you been here long?” Ian asked, sitting down against the wall a comfortable distance from Mickey. He didn’t know what was going on with them, but he thought it would be better if he kept some physical distance for now. He bent his long legs at his knees and rested his elbows.

“Since I texted you.“ Mickey lied. Old habits die hard. “Your drinkin’ these days?” He waved a beer in Ian's direction. 

Ian shook his head. “I shouldn’t. Got way too drunk with Mandy the other night. It really fucks with my meds.” He took in Mickey’s half smile and relaxed demeanour. “No sign of Kenyatta, then?”

Mickey cracked open the beer he’d offered Ian. “Not yet, but if someone ran off with eight grand of mine, you wouldn’t see me for the fuckin’ dust. Safe to say we’re expectin’ him.” 

Ian nodded solemnly. “Still, it's great to see Mandy again,” he offered, picking up a small piece of scrap metal from the concrete and turning it around in his hands. 

“Yeah, it really is.” Mickey was just grateful to know his sister was still fucking alive. “You okay, man? You seemed kinda wired the other day at the house?”

Ian felt embarrassment creeping over him. Of course Mickey had noticed his odd behaviour. As if he fucking wouldn't have. “I’m fine. I’m doing good, actually,” he said quietly. “You said you didn’t want to see me, so I was.. I was trying to stay away. I wouldn’t have come if I could’ve thought of any other way.” 

Mickey had forgotten that he’d said some pretty harsh things to Ian at the diner. Despite what he had done to Mickey’s heart, he felt guilty. He changed the subject. “You been up here since… since the last time?”

“Nah. You?” Still unable to risk direct eye contact with Mickey, he stared down between his knees, studying the concrete.

“Yeah, actually. I like to come here at night and think. Look at the stars and shit.” Mickey shrugged, and drank another mouthful of his beer, letting out a loud burp.

Ian giggled, sneaking a glance at Mickey out of the corner of his eye. “And when you see a shooting star, Mick, do you make a wish?” 

“Fuck you. I'm fuckin’ serious! I like it up here.” Mickey reached out with his elbow, giving Ian a playful prod in the knee. 

“I really didn't think stargazing was your thing.” Ian shrugged. Mickey had always thought that the stars, the moon, space, was the epitome of gay, romantic bullshit. Ian could hardly believe he was even admitting to it. 

A sly smile crept across Mickey’s face. “Yeah, well. Lots you don't know about me, Gallagher.”

Ian raised a curious eyebrow. “Like what?” he asked. “And please stop fucking calling me that.” If nothing else ever happened between them, he at least wanted to be called Ian again.

“Hmmm.. Like I got my GED while in the joint.” 

“You did?” Ian exclaimed, so happy for Mickey his resolve weakened and he leaned forward, looking at Mickey's face, his blue eyes. “Mick, that's great news.”

Mickey snorted. “Yeah, the world really is my fuckin’ oyster now. Those five shitty jobs I'm qualified for but I'll never get cos I'm a convicted felon? I’m fuckin’ golden.”

Ian laughed. He had to laugh, because that was all any of them could really do.

“Gimme that,” Ian muttered, taking the beer from Mickey's hand. Their fingers touched and Ian felt a small rush of exhilaration. He saw Mickey glance at him and then look away. Ian sipped a mouthful of beer, savouring the idea of his lips where Mickey's had been.

“I'm now the most highly educated Milkovich.. I'm like the Lip of my family.”

“Except you don't drink enough,” Ian quipped. Mickey snorted and they both erupted into laughter. 

It was starting to feel like old times; easy light hearted conversation, drinking and laughing heartily at their own stupid jokes. Mickey told stories about Yev and the funny things he was starting to do and the new words he was learning. They talked about movies and TV shows that Mickey had missed while in prison, and Ian told stories about some of the more ridiculous customers they’d had at the diner. Mickey chain smoked, and drank his beers, and Ian stole a sip every now and then.

“Missed ya, man.” Mickey gestured in the space between them. “Missed this.”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed. “Almost two whole years.”

“Been missin’ you for longer than that, ay.” Mickey slapped a hand down affectionately on Ian’s knee, giving it a friendly squeeze.

Ian let out a short, sharp exhale, that painful lump returning to his throat. He knew that Mickey was talking about the months when he had been hypomanic; a supercharged, alien version of himself.

Their conversation continued, free and easy and it almost felt like no time had passed. Almost. But they both knew that they weren’t there to reminisce. There were things that needed to be said. Important things. Ian knew he had some explaining to do, but he couldn’t bring himself to start that conversation. He couldn’t force himself to ruin the mood.

“I your hair like that. It looks good on you,” Ian said quietly. Small talk. Safe, reliable small talk. 

“Oh yeah, got it done ‘specially for ya,” Mickey teased.

“Really?” 

Mickey laughed. “No! Fuck, I know I'm a fag but I've got a long way to go before I get my hair cut to impress a dude,” he shook his head. “Got it cut in the joint. You can get a surprisingly good haircut in there. Some guys learn how to do useful shit to trade for commissary.”

“Did you learn any useful skills, Mick?”

“I learned that I really don't like prison.”

Ian sighed. That really killed the fucking mood. 

A silence descended over them. The sun was slowly setting above them, painting the sky shades of peach and lilac. The air around them had grown heavy with expectations.

“So.” Ian mused.

“Yeah. So, indeed.” Mickey leaned his head back against the crumbling brick wall, took a gulp of his beer and exhaled loudly.

“What was prison like?” 

Mickey crushed one of his empty cans and pelted it towards the skyline. “It was just like a fucking Yoga retreat, Ian. We all sat around singin’ Kumbaya and feeling at one with the universe.”

“Sorry.” Ian winced, wishing he could just keep saying the word over and over until Mickey finally understood all the things he was sorry for. “Were you safe in there, Mick?” 

Mickey paused, chewing at his bottom lip. “Mostly. Got into some fights.. Had to show dominance and that kinda shit. But I pretty much kept my head down,” He paused. “Coulda been worse, but I aint going back there ever again. It’s a helluva lot worse than juvie. Makes juvie look like fuckin’ sunday school.” 

Ian bristled at Mickey’s words. He wondered how prison was worse than juvie. From all accounts, juvie was pretty fucking bad.

“Why did you punch that cop?” Ian asked, digging at the concrete below him with the pointed edge of a rock.

“You know why I punched that cop.” Mickey bit back.

“Cos you wanted to be in prison.” 

“Because I didn’t wanna have to see your sorry arse!” Mickey replied, aggressively. He hadn’t intended to raise his voice, but shit. Ian had to know him well enough to know why he’d punched the fucking cop. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Mick.”

“You fuckin’ should be, Ian.”

Mickey ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “Had no fuckin’ idea how to deal with havin’ my heart broken by you, and then having to try and live without you. I still fucking don’t.” And if that wasn't the gayest thing he'd ever said, well fuck. 

Ian swallowed the thick lump forming in his throat.

“In the joint I didn’t have to see you or any the rest of you Gallaghers. I could pretend you all didn’t exist.” Mickey cracked open another beer, then continued, his tone heavy with annoyance. “I know you musta fuckin’ figured this out already, so why you gotta make me say it?”

“I don’t know, Mick. I knew.. I knew you were in there because of me, I just.. I wished there was some other reason, I guess,” Ian stammered. “It was hard for me, knowing that, especially when I.. when I couldn’t talk to you.”

“It was hard for you, huh.” Mickey scoffed, skimming a pebble along the concrete.

There was another silence. Awkward silence. Ian knew he had to say something. He could feel Mickey waiting for him to speak. Mickey had just shared things with him that he knew would have been difficult, but Ian was giving him nothing in return. It was like the voicemail message, and the conversation on the front steps of his house all over again.

“I don’t know how to say I’m sorry.” Ian started. He’d imagined this moment for almost two years. It was all he’d been able to think about for the past month. He wondered why it was it so fucking hard to make the words that rattled around in his brain travel out of his mouth. “I haven’t stopped thinking about what I did to you, Mick. I fucking hate myself for it.”

Mickey thumbed at his bottom lip, slowly shaking his head. Ian waited. He waited for Mickey to say something, anything at all.

“You really fuckin’ hurt me, Ian.” Mickey muttered finally. “But don’t say you hate yourself. Don’t wanna hear that shit. It ain’t true.”

Ian rubbed his forehead with his palm. Saying sorry for the heartache he'd caused Mickey seemed like cold comfort. Hollow and meaningless compared to the magnitude of everything he had to apologise for. There was still so much to say. But he didn't know how. He opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out.

Mickey watched Ian struggling to find his words. The tables really had turned. “What did I do wrong, Ian?”

“Nothing, Mick. You didn't do anything.”

“You musta thought you had some reason to break up with me on the side of the fucking street, Ian,” Mickey growled.

“It was nothing you did.” Ian paused, trying desperately to put his thoughts into words. “It's all my fucking fault. You gave me everything I had ever wanted from you… but I felt like it was for the wrong reasons.” 

Ian took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “Hearing that doctor say I’d have to take the fucking meds for forty fucking years or whatever.. I didn’t want to do that to you.”

Mickey bit his bottom lip, trying to temper his annoyance. “You shoulda let me make that decision for myself. I already fuckin’ had, anyway. I chose you.”

“I see that now.” Ian snuffled, pressing his fingers to his eyes which were prickling with tears. “I couldn’t see it at the time. It just felt like.. everything changed suddenly. I didn't know what was real.”

Mickey closed his eyes briefly, thinking back two years ago and settled on a memory. “Hey you remember when you got out of hospital and I was real late showing up to your house?”

Ian nodded. He remembered.

“After I visited you in the hospital, I went back home and got really tanked. Felt real sorry for us both. And I did think about it.. About what I wanted. But when I sobered up, that’s when I’d decided. That’s when I chose you.” Mickey’s voice cracked. It was a painful memory, but he recalled it like it was yesterday because of course he fucking did. 

“Fuck.” 

Ian paused, thinking about what Mickey had just admitted and hating himself all over again for what he'd thrown away. _Please choose me again, Mickey. Please._ He forced himself to make eye contact with Mickey. “I don't know.. maybe.. maybe I just wasn’t ready for things to be that serious. But I am now, Mickey. I’m ready.”

Mickey sighed and looked away, breaking Ian's gaze. “All I fuckin’ did was care about you, Ian,” he eventually replied, shaking his head. “I was probably a bit full on and I'd do it differently now. But I ain't apologising for caring.”

Ian could hear the hurt in Mickey’s usually brash voice. He felt sick. He started anxiously making fists with his hands. “I guess I didn't know if you caring about me was really you, or.. or if you just kinda.. pitied me-.”

“Fuck, it was really me, Ian. Course I cared about you. It weren't an act or nothing. Being with you changed me, yeah. But I'm a better person now. I almost fuckin’ like myself these days.”

“You cared,” Ian repeated. “Past tense.”

“Christ, Ian,” Mickey shook his head in disbelief. “I still fucking care.”

“You're amazing, Mick. Fucking perfect,” Ian breathed, catching Mickey's eyes with his own.

Mickey felt embarrassment pooling in his cheeks. Nobody ever complimented him. He wasn't used to it. 

”When you took off with Yev, I thought I lost you all over again,” Mickey said quietly. “Shit got very fucking real, very quick. I’d been all in with you for ages. I wasn't mucking around with us. All that changed is I started showin’ it.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian said quietly.

“I just wanted to help you, man.” 

The sobs Ian had been fighting became full blown tears of sadness and relief. The reality of this long awaited conversation was overwhelming. And through some miracle, Mickey seemed to understand everything Ian was managing to say. Mickey got it. He really fucking got it. _He gets me_. _Because he is everything and he's perfect and I fucking love him._

“I feel like if you hadn't taken off with your- with Monica..” Mickey started.

“I'm sorry,” Ian sobbed again. “I let her get inside my head.”

“Thought so.” Fucking Monica. Mickey had never even met the fucking woman, yet somehow her presence had managed to fuck up his life in new ways each time Ian saw her.

“I was so messed up Mick. I didn’t want to take the meds because.. they.. they… it just fucking sucks having to take them. Like why should I have to be on these drugs to control who I am. I didn't know who the real me was, anymore,” Ian continued. “I'm sorry.”

Mickey placed his hand softly on Ian’s knee. He closed his eyes, silently willing himself to resist the physical urge he had to abandon this conversation and hold Ian and kiss him like they were back in the diner.

“I’m glad you took your meds, man,” Mickey started. “But fuck, can’t help feelin’ like if you took ‘em sooner, all this….things would be different, ay.”

Ian put his head in his hands. “I know. I’m painfully aware of the epic way I fucked up, Mick.” He choked out a sob. “Do you think you'll ever be able to forgive me?”

“Yeah, course. It’s just.. It's hard to get past it, Ian. I’m so fucking glad you’re doing better, but..” Mickey lamented. “I dunno.. wish we could go back in time, or somethin’.”

Ian lifted his head and looked directly at Mickey. “I didn't start taking them right away or anything. It was months before I started taking them.”

“Ay, you don't need to justify yourself.”

“Right before I started taking them, I got bad, Mick. Really bad. I.. everyday I’m thankful that I’m still here.”

Mickey felt a stabbing feeling in his heart, and a heavy sense of dread settling in his stomach. “This before or after the visitation list?” He asked, flatly. It wasn’t even really a question because he was pretty sure he already knew the fucking answer.

“After,” Ian said solemnly. He sighed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Fuck, Ian.” He cursed himself for not allowing Ian to visit him. He’d just wanted to forget about Ian all together. Out of sight, out of mind. He hadn’t been able to shake the the idea of Ian fucking his way around Chicago, jumping in and out of bed with every grey haired geriatric pervert willing to buy him room service. But the truly fucked up part was that he had also wanted to punish Ian a little bit. He should have known better. “I’m so sorry. Fuckin’ wish I hadn’t done that.” 

“I would have visited you every week, Mick.” Ian said, matter-of-fact. “I would have apologised to you every week until you were sick of hearing it and I wouldn’t have stopped until you forgave me.”

Mickey smiled, despite himself, as he realised the Ian that he loved really was still there. The Ian Gallagher who was fucking stubborn and never knew when to stop. _His_ Ian. “I bet you woulda. You’re a stubborn fuck, Gallagher.”

Ian pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them and resting his chin between them. “When I started taking my meds, shit started making sense again… eventually, anyway.” Ian shrugged, despondently. “But it was too late, I’d already fucked everything up.”

“It's okay, man.”

“Is it?” Ian looked upwards towards the sky. “I've asked myself why I did this to you, to us, two hundred times a day ever since. I wish I could… just undo everything.”

Mickey gave Ian’s shoulders a friendly squeeze, leaving his arm to linger around him. “I get it, Ian. Neither of us were fuckin’ perfect. We got thrown in the deep end, with fuck all skills to deal with it.”

Ian hummed his agreement. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Ian blissfully aware of Mickey’s arm draped around his shoulders. He thought once again about their kiss at the diner. His heart started pounding in his chest, as he stared down at his hands. He had to ask. He had to know what it meant. If it meant anything, at all. 

“What was that kiss the other day, Mick?”

“It was a kiss, Ian,” Mickey said defensively. It was the hottest kiss they’d ever shared, as far as Mickey was concerned but Ian didn’t need to know that. Not now.

Ian stared at the ground. “I know what it felt like to me.”

“Ian-,”

“Admit it meant something, Mick.”

Mickey paused, considering giving in to his old ways and lying, telling Ian it meant nothing. That he didn’t feel anything. That it was a mistake. Mickey Milkovich might not know much, but he knew Ian Gallagher well enough to know it was easier just to admit the truth now. 

“I felt it too, aight.”

Ian let the words wash over him. _I felt it too._ They were all he needed to shift closer to Mickey. He turned to face him and grabbed his hands in his own. “So what now, Mick?” 

Mickey closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Fucking hell, Ian. I still got feelings for you, okay.” He paused. “But that don't mean-.”

Panic rose quickly in Ian's body. “It doesn’t mean what?” he snapped. He felt his grip on Mickey’s hands tighten.

“It don’t mean we gotta rush into anything.”

“Mick,” Ian’s breath hitched in his throat. He paused for a second, holding onto Mickey’s words dissecting any and all possible meaning behind them. “You don’t want anything with me? Or you just don’t want to rush?”

“I don't even get why we’re talkin’ about this,” Mickey shrugged, removing his hands from Ian's death grip. 

“What? Why wouldn't we talk about it? It fucking meant something. You know it did!”

“Yeah, but I mean.. Lip was tellin’ me that you’re practically fuckin’.. married,” Mickey spat the words with disdain, hurling a rock aimlessly into the darkness. “Don't feel like we should even be talkin’ about an _us_.”

Ian sighed. Fucking Lip. He was filled with fresh anger towards his brother. “It’s not like that. Don't listen to anything he fucking says. He said that shit to piss you off.” Ian swallowed, took a deep breath and continued. “I needed to talk to you. I want to be together now everything else isn’t so fucked up. We can, you know. We can be together again, Mickey.”

“Ian-.”

“I want you to see that I am doing alright now.. I'm still me. I _need_ you to see that, Mickey.” Ian bristled at the sound of his own voice, pleading and thick with desperation. “Do you see it, Mickey? Do you? I’m me, again.”

“I do. I see it.” Mickey moved one hand up to cup the side of Ian's face and stroked his cheek with his thumb, in spite of himself. He did see it. He saw the guy he’d fallen in love with. He really fucking did. But he still couldn't shake the memories of Ian at his worst. It was too soon.

Ian closed his eyes and exhaled shakily, savouring the feeling of Mickey’s hand on his cheek. He wanted to freeze time. He leaned forward towards Mickey tilting his head, so their foreheads were touching. 

“There's nothing that can stop us now, Mick,” Ian breathed.

“I know, Ian.. “ Mickey paused. This was a turning point, Mickey knew that. He could move his mouth two inches and they’d be kissing, they’d probably fuck on the rooftop or back at Mickey’s, or both, falling back together, as if nothing had changed. But things had changed. Mickey just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t move those two inches. It felt like two miles. 

“I get it.. “ he paused, trying to piece together the thoughts racing through his brain. “Everything you’ve told me, I get it. But I’m… I’ve been pissed at you for a long time, man. I think I just need time, ay.” Mickey felt Ian’s body grow rigid against his. “Let’s see.. let’s see if we.. I don't know.. See if we can be friends again, first.”

Mickey’s words hit Ian in the chest with the force of a moving vehicle. He recoiled from Mickey, his body jolting quickly backwards. He felt like he was slowly deflating and becoming tightly coiled with anger and frustration at the same time. _See if we can be friends._

“What the fuck is this, then? You’re telling me that we've been sitting here laughing and joking around for hours, like no time has passed and were not even fucking friends?”

“We just.. We need time, ay. Can’t go jumpin’ into anything like what we had, too quick. We need to like, work up to it or some shit,” Mickey tried to explain. 

Ian stared into Mickey's eyes, his jaw set in its stubborn expression. “Not even fucking friends,” he repeated. 

Mickey tilted his head back, and stared up at the sky, sighing. “Please don’t overthink it, man. _Please._ Did you really expect to just pick up where we left off two years ago?” Mickey snapped. He paused for a few seconds, then softened. “Don't go gettin’ upset. It’s just time.”

“Time.”

“Yeah, man. Things are a lot better now. That’s why there ain't no need to rush.”

Ian huffed and resumed his original position leaning against the wall. They sat in silence for a few more minutes, as Ian reeled from Mickey’s words. His breath was shallow and heavy in his chest and all he could think about was leaving the rooftop. 

“I need to get back home and take my meds.”

“You okay?” Mickey asked, grabbing Ian’s shoulder, his eyes searching for his face in the dark. He wished he could see Ian properly, so he had some idea what was going on in his crazy fucking head. His eyes always told Mickey so much, but this ability was useless if Mickey couldn’t fucking see them.

“Yeah I’m fine.” Ian stood up, brushing dirt of his jeans. “Thanks for telling me how you feel.”

“Don’t go,” Mickey said. “Stay here. Hang with me for a bit longer.”

“I gotta get back.”

“Aight, well I’ll..”

“Yeah, I’ll be seeing Mandy soon. Or something….” Ian muttered, his voice trailing off. _I’ll go back to my life and you’ll go back to yours, and we’ll see each other when our paths cross again or some fucking shit._ “Later.”

Mickey remained sitting with his back against the wall, his elbows resting on his bended knees, staring in the dark as Ian walked off. The blackened outline of the tall redhead blurred and faded until he had blended into the dark night, becoming part of the shadows. 

Mickey had tried his best to understand what Ian had been telling him. And he was pretty sure he got it; it had been a difficult, fucked up time back then, for both of them. When Mickey was in prison it had been easy to blame everything on Ian when Ian Gallagher was just the name of a person Mickey didn’t have to see anymore, but when they were face to face and Ian was real again, it suddenly became a lot more complicated. Ian had played his part in their breakup, sure. But now it felt like the entire shitty series of events that had occurred during their relationship - his dad, Ian enlisting, bipolar disorder, the military police, Sammi, Monica - had all culminated in Mickey’s heartbreak at the front of the Gallagher house. 

Mickey wondered where him and Ian would have ended up without the complications that life kept throwing their way, without the two of them reacting, usually badly, to crisis after crisis. 

_I want to be together now everything else isn’t so fucked up._

Fuck. Mickey did too. He really did. But all the bitterness and resentment he’d felt towards Ian still existed, though its aim wasn’t so focussed anymore, it was scattering and swirling but Mickey still didn’t know where it belonged. Or where it was going to settle.

He felt hesitant towards Ian. Guarded. And he didn't want to feel that way. Not about Ian. He was pretty sure he just needed time; time to adjust to Ian being back in his life. It would be too fucking easy to jump back together, falling back into their old habits, emotions too difficult to process being buried beneath their surface, left to fester inside both of them. They both deserved better than that. 

But Ian had stormed off before Mickey really had a chance to even try and explain himself. _Figures._ Seemed like he was always watching Ian Gallagher leave.

 

* * *

Ian's head was spinning as he walked home, Mickey's words creating turbulence in his head. _I just need time. Let’s see if we can be friends again._ Who was this person? He wished Mickey had just punched him in the face, or abused him like he used to, so Ian could get back up and come back for more, the same as he always had. He knew how to deal with that. But he didn’t know what to do with these completely rational sounding words that had come from Mickey’s mouth because it sounded like he had meant what he said this time.

A cascade of miserable tears streamed down Ian’s face as his angry footsteps quickened in time with his mounting frustration. He couldn’t understand how Mickey could possibly think they weren’t even friends. They’d been talking and laughing and making jokes and it felt to Ian like how things used to be. He’d been waiting for close to two years to experience that with Mickey again. He felt sure he didn't have it in him to wait anymore. He had already waited two years for Mickey kiss him, three years for him to admit to Ian that they were a couple, even longer still for Mickey to come out.

It made Ian nauseous thinking about Mickey living his life, only two streets separating them, but still a world away, being forced to just leave him to it. He couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing what was going on. He’d never been able to stay away from Mickey. It would be next to impossible now that he knew how close they’d just been to getting back together.

Ian had known that Mickey wasn’t ever going to come around to him overnight. He knew he’d have to grovel and beg. And he knew he should give Mickey time if he wanted it. He knew it was a reasonable request and he knew he should be able to do it. But he just didn’t know how. 

When he got home, he realised that the question of _how_ , had been answered for him.

 

Ian heard the screaming before he had even made it into the backyard of his family’s home. He crept up to the back porch and listened. That voice. He knew that voice. He climbed quickly and silently up the stairs and inside, into his bedroom.

Ian looked at his phone in disbelief. There were no messages. All his siblings were home, including Lip, and not one of them had thought to text him to give him a heads up. All the coddling, Lip warning Mickey off, all those endless, cloying questions - _have you taken your meds, don’t forget your medication, how are you feeling,_ _what’s wrong, talk to us, Ian_ \- were all just hollow intrusions because when it really mattered, they hadn't even thought to warn him.

The room was spinning, and there was a roaring in his ears. He shut his eyes to try and still himself but it only made the commotion from downstairs louder and more insistent. Ian pawed at his eyes with the heel of his hands. _This cannot be happening now._ The walls were closing in, suffocating him.

_Fuck this._

He grabbed his army duffle bag and furiously filled it with clothes, his meds, his prescriptions. The yelling from downstairs was unrelenting. It was too chaotic for him to be able to glean the subject of the screaming match, but he could hear Fiona's frustrated tones and Liam crying, Debbie trying to soothe Liam, Lip’s quips of sarcastic detachment that masked his involvement. Even fucking Frank had made an appearance. And he could hear Monica's lilting, sweet lullaby voice, cooing at them, telling them motherly things. The voice that could tell you exactly what you wanted to hear and have you believing it, believing in her, until she dropped everything, dropped her family and moved on, because when it came down to it, she didn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.

_Monica._

He couldn’t fucking believe she was here - just when he was starting to feel like himself again, starting to get some of his confidence back. Mickey and Mandy were back in his life and slowly the missing pieces were falling together and everything was starting to make sense once again. He still held out some vague hope that he and Mickey could be together eventually, and his mother just had to show up. What incredible fucking timing. Seeing his mother was like looking at a talking reflection; _I understand you Ian, I’ll accept you for who you were meant to be, just follow me._

She was the constant upon which his family analysed his behaviour, and as much as he tried not to be like her, he could never shake the feeling that she was the only person who truly understood him. This was dangerous. None of them trusted Monica and even worse, Ian didn’t trust himself when he was around her. He couldn’t risk her getting inside his head again, turning his own thoughts against him and destroying everything he cared about. He couldn’t do that to Mickey. Not again. 

Ian stood in the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the bedroom he shared with his two younger brothers. He nodded to himself. This was for the best. This way he could give Mickey space. It’s what Mickey would want. 

He hurried down the back steps, over the fence into the alley, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5000 words of our two heroes confessing their fuckin' feelings, plus a cliffhanger :)
> 
> And yes, Ian overreacted. It's all part of the journey.


	8. Gut Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey woke up in his bed in the dark, alone, his head pounding, and his mouth dry. He was hungover. Although, he wasn’t sure if it was still considered a hangover, when he’d started drinking in the afternoon and hadn’t slept overnight. A few foggy moments passed while he tried to piece together the last eighteen hours. A vague feeling of familiar dread swept over him; something wasn’t right, something to do with Ian. When the final remnants of his drunken slumber slowly crept away he realised what it was. Ian was missing. Gone.

Mickey was exhausted. If someone had told him he’d be this fucking tired from sitting on his backside, driving a van around Chicago, he never would have believed them. He had never been this tired when he was still doing runs with his brothers, or delivering beatdowns to whomever the Milkoviches deemed was due for one. It was no fucking wonder people turned to a life of crime; going straight was hard work and it really didn’t pay very well. And as if Mickey wasn’t already acutely aware that his job brought in precious little cash to add to the pot, Svetlana relished in reminding him of this fact daily.

“Your shit job barely pay money for water bill,” she moaned, slopping some watery Russian stew concoction down onto Mickey’s plate. “You spend too much time in shower, wanking over Orange Boy.”

Mickey snorted, almost choking on his beer. He knew this wasn’t true, because although he couldn't deny that a certain redhead featured heavily in his fantasies, he rarely jerked it in the shower for that very reason. 

“His name is Ian,” he said slowly, rolling his eyes, “which you are all too fuckin’ aware, and I jerk it in the bathroom sink.” The look of disgust on Svetlana’s face made the embarrassing admission totally worth it.

Mandy groaned in horror as she slinked into the kitchen, taking a seat at their tiny dining table. “It’s my fault. We're using more hot water because I’m here,” she offered. She’d been staying with Mickey and her brothers for the better part of a week now. “I need to contribute, too. Fuck. I should probably get a job. I guess I’m sticking around.”

“Please, husband. Get back with Orange Boy so you can rub dicks together in bed for free,” Svetlana continued. 

Mickey sighed and rolled his eyes at the familiar ribbing from his wife. “Or here’s a fuckin’ idea,” he snapped. “Why don’t you get a fuckin’ job?” 

“Eh, I have no skill besides hand-whore. But no longer. Not for me,” she retorted, shaking her head. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey muttered. “You won’t be doin’ that no more.” This was a problem. Not because Svetlana didn’t want to be a hand-whore - Mickey couldn’t blame her for refusing to do it again and his pimping days were over anyhow. But now he needed to figure out what the fuck to do with her. Out of the three of them sitting at the dinner table, Svetlana was probably the least employable. And that was really saying something. 

“Dinner smells good, Sveta,” Mandy said, as Svetlana set a bowl down in front of her.

“I can cook family recipe, but I am just Russian immigrant with no skills. America has no job for me,” Svetlana groused, sipping at a spoonful of her own soup.

Mickey sighed, forcing himself to swallow a mouthful of Svetlana’s communist stew. “Christ. Cooking better not be your only fuckin’ skill if this is anything to go by.”

Svetlana shrugged and cursed him in Russian. 

“Stolichnaya, stroganoff, perestroika,” he shot back the only three Russian words he knew. He and Svetlana had gotten along much better when Ian was living there. Probably because everything was fucking better when Ian was around. His presence would probably even make his dinner taste good. _Ian_. Mickey was surprised he hadn’t heard from him.

“Don’t listen to that arsehole, it tastes really good Sveta. You’ll have to show me how to make it,” Mandy smiled, trying to keep the peace. It actually was pretty good stew. 

Mickey chased down another mouthful of his dinner with the dregs of his beer, listening as Svetlana continued to complain.

“America, eh? Land of the free. Land of opportunity,” she sneered. “Where there are no job opportunities and everything cost money.”

“Go do a class at Malcom X or some shit. I’m not your fuckin’ guidance counsellor,” Mickey cursed her. Fuck, this sham marriage was a huge pain in his arse. And not the good kind, either.

“Such a simple solution, eh husband? That’s why you drive delivery truck for pennies.”

“We get it! I have a shitty fuckin’ job!” Mickey yelled out in frustration. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and then softened. “Listen, you know how to rub, just do it without the fuckin’ tug.” He figured she could be one of those people that gave massages, but the legit kind, the kind without the happy ending. What was that called? A massage with an unhappy ending? Mickey snorted.

Svetlana and Mandy both put down their spoons and turned to look at Mickey. Both women had the exact same looks on their faces; a mixture of disbelief and something else that Mickey had never seen levelled at him before. What the fuck was going on? It was a strange way to react to what was possibly the least offensive thing he'd ever said. He suddenly felt very self-conscious. Women. He’d never understand them. He was just glad he didn’t have to.

“You mean, like a masseuse?” Mandy asked finally. She had witnessed Mickey dreaming up the most elaborate cons and inventive ways to cover his arse, but this was truly inspired. Simple. Obvious. She was impressed.

“Yeah. That’s what I meant.” A masseuse. He just hadn’t known the word.

“Yes, I like this,” Svetlana nodded in approval. “You see, my arsehole husband not total fucking idiot always.” She leaned over to him and placed a kiss on his cheek.

Mickey recoiled in exaggerated disgust at the affection from his least preferred sex. “Ay, fuck off. You want me to have more good ideas, don’t ya?” He screwed up his nose and wiped the feeling of her lips from his flushing cheek. He stared down at his bowl with a half-smile.

“What do you need to do to get a job as a masseuse?” Mandy wondered aloud. She turned to Svetlana, “We’ll google it later, okay? It will be fun.”

Svetlana nodded her approval.

“Think of something for me to do too, will ya, douchebag?” Mandy said, picking up the salt shaker and playfully flicking salt in her brother’s direction. “There’s gotta be more to life than working at fuckin’ Waffle Cottage.” 

Mandy hadn’t expected to wind up back in Southside when she’d taken off to Indiana with Kenyatta. She’d had Waffle Cottage type jobs in Indiana too, but they still seemed like progress, like she’d almost actually done some something with her life. She had been just as poor in Indiana, but for some reason, it was more tolerable being hopeless and poor away from the fucking Southside. Until Kenyatta forced her to do… that _. Fucking Kenyatta._ She had settled back into her life in Chicago with Ian and her idiot brothers so easily that she sometimes allowed herself to forget the reason she had come back in the first place. 

“Why the fuck hasn’t Kenyatta shown up yet, anyway? I just want all this this crap over ‘n done with,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead in frustration. 

“Dunno, Mands.” Mickey shook his head, trying to downplay her concerns. “Ain't nothin’ to worry about. We're fuckin’ Milkoviches. We’ll end him.”

Mandy sighed and nodded in acquiescence. 

The truth was, the longer it took Kenyatta to get there, the more it bothered Mickey, because it seemed like he’d be packing serious heat and bringing backup. Mandy had literally taken all his money. Most people knew better than to start something with the Milkoviches, but there was something about Mandy's gigantic, idiotic ex-boyfriend that told Mickey he would be a problem he could really live without

“We got the eight grand still, everything’s good to go soon as he shows his fuckin’ face. But if you’re here when he comes, you gotta go back to Gallagher’s ‘til ya hear otherwise,” Mickey explained, trying to hide his apprehension.

Mandy nodded again and changed the subject. “How’d it go with you and Ian the other night, anyways? Did you confess your fuckin’ feelings or were you both too fucking lame?”

It was Mickey’s turn to drop his spoon in his salty dinner. “The fuck? You aint talked to him?” 

“Nah.” Mandy shook her head. “Thought he’d text or call. Lip’s there at the moment, so I haven’t been round there. Fuck _that_ arsehole.”

“Orange Boy disappeared, yeah? Gone crazy again, huh?” Svetlana offered sarcastically, with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

“Ay. Shut up! No he aint crazy. He’s takin’ his meds and shit,” Mickey exclaimed. He looked down at this dinner and chewed on his bottom lip. He hated to admit it, but the fact that Mandy hadn't heard from Ian all week was concerning. Sure, Ian was pissed at him, but he had no reason to be ignoring Mandy. 

“Have you heard from him, arseface?” Mandy asked.

“We don’t constantly text each other like a pair of fuckin’ teenage girls, Mands,” he snapped, belying his growing concern for Ian. 

“Jesus! Okay, douchebag. You’re the one who brought it up,” Mandy shook her head in disbelief. “So are you back together or not?”

“Not,” Mickey snapped.

Mandy rolled her eyes, abandoning the subject of Ian, continuing instead to talk to Svetlana about career choices, while Mickey tried desperately to squash the rising feeling of dread he felt in his gut about Ian's whereabouts. Eventually, his gnawing worry got the better of him and he reached under the dinner table and pulled his phone out slowly and carefully from his pocket. He balanced it in his lap and silently typed in a message to Ian with one hand, while continuing to eat his stew with the other. 

For the remainder of the night, he was acutely aware of his phone sitting heavy and dormant in his pocket, his message to Ian unreplied to.

* * *

Fiona wiped down the kitchen bench for the fourth, or maybe it was the fifth time in the last half hour. She leaned against the edge of the sink, running her hands over her head, smoothing down the errant hairs from her messy ponytail and exhaled.

Where the _fuck_ was Ian?

The Gallagher house was experiencing a rare moment of calm, which would normally be a blessing, but with nothing to distract her, Fiona couldn’t help but worry about her brother. Her missing, bipolar brother. She huffed out a humourless laugh; she knew she was kidding herself to think she’d be able to stop worrying about Ian even if she wanted to. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and re-read the last message she’d received from Ian, three days ago; 

_I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Talk soon._

Of course the message did nothing to ease her mind at all. 

The truth was, Fiona knew next to nothing about her younger brother’s life. They rarely talked anymore. Sure, she made jokes about his hot boyfriend, and she checked up on him to make sure he was taking his medication, and if she was honest, she did more than her fair share of barking orders while they both worked the same shift at the diner. But an actual conversation? She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had one. It seemed like a lifetime ago since Ian had told her anything important. He had certainly never bothered to tell her about him and Mickey. She had stumbled upon that fact one morning when she walked in on Mickey, sitting at their kitchen table, pouring Ian coffee and kissing him lovingly on the side of his head. Her brother had smiled and the two boys had looked at each other with expressions that Fiona had only dreamed of being on the receiving end from any of her boyfriends. She had been surprised and happy for Ian, and strangely jealous all at the same time. But, the last time Ian had confided in her? That must have been when he told her he was gay. 

_Jesus, that was five years ago._

In that time, her brother had become somewhat of a mystery to her. He never complained and Fiona knew he could look after himself, but at the same time, he always seemed burdened with thoughts he was reluctant to share. Fiona, for the most part, had left Ian to handle himself. She could see now that she could have been more supportive when he received his bipolar diagnosis, but by the time he was diagnosed he had become resistant to accepting help and she was never sure how to offer it without feeling like she was nagging or trivialising him. Truthfully, she still didn’t know how to help him. Fiona sighed, wishing she knew how to mend their relationship. She promised herself, that when he returned home, she would at least try.

She drummed her fingertips nervously on the benchtop and considered telling Lip that Ian was missing, that he hadn’t shown up for any of his shifts at the diner for four days. _Four days. Shit._ But she had a gut feeling, and she tried not to ignore those these days, that getting Lip involved would only add fuel to whatever fire had burned inside Ian and sparked his disappearance. Her brothers had been at each other’s throats recently, and as usual she had no idea why, but she knew enough to know that involving Lip would be her last resort.

She glanced at her watch. It was only a matter of time before Monica barged back in high on drugs, alcohol or mania. Lip was getting drunk at The Alibi, Debbie was upstairs in her room and Liam was asleep. Carl was out doing whatever it was Carl did. She would have to act now. 

Fiona shoved her phone back in her pocket and ventured out into the warm night, to the Milkovich house. She’d convinced herself that's where she'd find Ian; hanging out with Mickey, too happy and too immersed in their own little world, for Ian to bother replying to nagging messages from his oldest sister. 

Fiona placed four confident sounding knocks on the front door of the near derelict house. A minute passed before the door swung open and Mickey appeared before her. He opened and closed his mouth quickly, as though he was about to spew a tirade of verbal abuse at her, but had decided against it. She could tell from the look on Mickey's face that Ian wasn't there.

“‘Sup” Mickey greeted her, trying his best to keep his tone nonchalant. 

“Hey Mickey.. been a while, huh?” Fiona said, tentatively. Fiona watched as he pinched the top of his nose between his eyes, gave his head a quick shake and raised an eyebrow at her. 

“Is Ian with you?” she asked, despite being sure she already knew the answer.

Mickey sighed, unfortunately in no way surprised by the question. “No, he aint with me. Thought he’d be with you.”

 _Shit._ Fiona’s heart started thumping in her chest, a cold sweat breaking out on her skin, millions of tiny icicles all needling her at once. “Fuck, Mickey. Last I saw him was four days ago, at work. He sent one fuckin’ message tellin’ me not to worry. Have you seen him?”

“Saw him last Sunday night,” Mickey gnawed on his bottom lip.

“Yeah. And?”

“And as far as I fuckin’ know he went back home. Figured he was old enough to make it there on his own so I didn’t chaperone his arse.” Mickey broke Fiona's gaze, looking away and closing his eyes briefly. He pictured himself, sinking slowly, spiralling down into a tunnel, lined with images of red hair and freckles and broad shoulders in striped tshirts. 

Fiona blinked, momentarily taken aback by Mickey’s defensiveness. But she could see something in his expression, a softness, a brief flash of the Mickey who had sat smiling at Ian at their kitchen table. She could tell he was as worried about Ian as she was.

“Have you called or messaged him? He hasn’t shown up at work for four days,” Fiona pressed.

“Course I’ve fuckin’ messaged him.” 

“And?” Fiona folded her arms in frustration. Talking to Mickey was always like pulling teeth. They both knew he cared for her brother, she wished he would just cut the bullshit.

Mickey shook his head. “Radio fucking silence.”

Fiona furrowed her brows and placed her hands in her hips. “Monica is back at our place but she hasn’t seen him. So he’s not with her, she hasn’t seen him since.. Since last time. Monica - our mother,” she ran her hands through the roots of her hair, rubbing desperately at her forehead.

Mickey sighed. Monica. Always fucking Monica. “Yeah, I fuckin’ know who Monica is,” he shot back at her, feeling his lips curl into a frustrated sneer. 

Fiona paused. “Well, what was he like when you left him? Did somethin’ happen?” she asked, trying her best to keep judgement from her tone.

Mickey hesitated, debating whether to tell Fiona that Ian had stormed off. “He don’t always tell me how he’s fuckin’ feeling,” he lied. He knew how Ian had been feeling, alright; pissy, sulky, angry, whatever.

“Don’t I know it.” Fiona groaned, exasperated. “I don’t know where he is Mickey.”

“What about that fuckin’ Northside boyfriend?” Mickey suggested, hating that the guy was even worth mentioning, and annoyed as fuck that this bothered him.

“I don't think that's serious. We don't even know where he lives or his fuckin last name,” she muttered. “And it doesn’t make sense for him not to contact us, anyway.”

“Well I been in jail for fourteen months, Fiona. I don't exactly know much about his life no more,” Mickey groused, his voice heavy with frustration. He watched as Fiona’s face reacted in disappointment and she looked back at him with sad, desperate eyes. _Fuckin’ hell._

“I’ll keep on tryin’ to get a hold of him, aight. I’ll bring him back home,” Mickey heard himself say, and immediately regretted it. And then, because Fiona’s eyes apparently had almost the same effect on him as Ian’s did, he continued in spite of himself, “as soon as I know where his skinny arse is, I’ll go get him.”

“Okay.” Fiona nodded quickly, trying to placate herself. “Okay.”

Mickey stared at Fiona with a raised eyebrow, shaking his head. This felt way too much like deja fucking vu. Like fucking _Groundhog Day_ , the Ian Gallagher edition.

“Thanks, Mickey,” Fiona smiled awkwardly. “You know, I’m pretty sure you’re only person he really listens to.”

“That so?” Mickey replied sarcastically, with a frustrated snarl. If that were true, he wondered why it never fucking felt like it. 

Mickey disappeared behind the door, slamming it shut behind him. Fiona stood on the front step for a brief moment, mentally rehashing their conversation before turning around and heading back home. 

She couldn’t deny that Mickey Milkovich was an intimidating individual, but there was something about the way he had promised to bring Ian home that had instilled her trust. She could almost see why her brother put so much faith in Mickey, and why Ian kept returning to him. Fiona felt a small measure of comfort knowing that Mickey was involved now; she was almost convinced Mickey’s was the only opinion her brother even cared about anymore.

She walked back to the Gallagher house, feeling marginally more at ease, taking a few deep breaths and steeling herself for the chaos likely to ensue when Monica returned home for the night. 

_Another day, another series of Gallagher disasters to clean up._

She sighed deeply, then quickly composed herself. Everything would be fine. Ian would be home soon. He'd be back in one piece. She forced herself to believe it. She had to.

 

* * *

Mickey woke up in his bed in the dark, alone, his head pounding, and his mouth dry. He was hungover. Although, he wasn’t sure if it was still considered a hangover, when he’d started drinking in the afternoon and hadn’t slept overnight. A few foggy moments passed while he tried to piece together the last eighteen hours. A vague feeling of familiar dread swept over him; something wasn’t right, something to do with Ian. When the final remnants of his drunken slumber slowly crept away he realised what it was. Ian was missing. Gone. 

The memory of the promise he had made to Fiona came flooding back to him, and he groaned. Why couldn’t he ever just keep his stupid fucking mouth shut? He stretched out an arm and waved it haphazardly around his bedside table, finally settling on his phone. Still no fucking messages from Ian.

Fuck that guy.

“Hey arsehole,” Mandy said from their living room, as he trudged despondently into the kitchen. “You look like shit.”

Mickey grunted apathetically from the kitchen as he reached up into one of the cupboards and pulled out an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. Hair of the dog. That would do nicely.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You on a bender or something?” Mandy asked as her brother slumped listlessly onto the couch next to her.

Mickey wasn’t sure where he should even start with that question. He cracked open the seal on the whiskey, bringing the bottle to his lips. “Ian's gone.”

Mandy took a minute to digest this information. “Huh. So that's why we haven't heard from him. Gone where?” She screwed her face up in confusion.

“Gone, Mands. I don't fucking know. If I knew, I'd fuckin’ be there. Fiona don't know either. She ain't seen him for four days.” Mickey said flatly, feeling the familiar, comforting burn as the whiskey slid down his throat and settled in his empty stomach. 

“Since you and him caught up?” Mandy prodded. “Christ, arsehole. You smell like a fuckin’ distillery. Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

“Calling in sick.” Or hungover, or drunk. Whichever. Mickey groaned and rubbed his throbbing head.

“What actually happened with you two?” She asked, taking a shot of whiskey from the bottle, herself. “Spare me the sexy highlights, just tell me what the fuck you said to him.”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip and looked away without answering.

Mandy recognised that as Mickey’s tell. “Come on, arsehole. Spill it.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Mickey sank shots from his whiskey bottle.

“I might have told him that I just wanted to be fuckin’ friends for a bit, ay,” Mickey slurred. “Told him I needed time.. couldn’t just get back together right away, like we were.”

Mandy furrowed her brow, thinking. It didn't seem like a terrible thing to say. It was understandable, even. But Ian could be kinda dramatic. “That seems fair enough, douchebag,” she nodded. “Guess Ian didn’t appreciate it?”

“Seemed kinda pissy and angry. Stomped off in a fuckin’ huff.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. That sounded like Ian. “You wanna get back together with him though, don't ya?”

Mickey paused, wondering how to explain the clusterfuck that was him and Ian to anyone at all. He could barely explain it to himself. “Dick says yes. Brain says maybe.”

Mandy groaned in disgust. “Coulda just said yes or no, idiot.”

“It's complicated, ay. Easiest way I could describe it,” Mickey replied.

“Whatever. You're a guy; dick always wins,” she said bluntly. “All the rest is just theatre.”

Mickey smirked and laughed hoarsely. Fuck, he couldn’t really argue with that logic.

“You'll end up back together,” she continued. “You know I don't believe in fate or any of that crap but if anything is meant to be, it's you two arseholes. I already told Ian that.”

Mickey snorted. “Yeah, we're real fuckin’ star crossed lovers, Mands. We're the Romeo and Juliet of the fuckin’ Southside.”

Mandy giggled.

“Romeo and Romeo,” he corrected himself.

“More like Juliet and Juliet,” Mandy added, dryly. 

“Ay. Shut the fuck up,” Mickey gave his sister a playful shove. Shit, he had really fucking missed her.

Mandy bristled, as an unpleasant thought occurred to her. “Do you think.. could it be a bipolar thing?” 

Mickey shook his head. “Don’t think so. He seemed good when I saw him.” He leaned back on the couch and rested his head. “Like really fuckin’ good. Seemed like himself.” He supposed this _was_ Ian Gallagher being himself; stomping off all sulky and shit. It certainly wasn’t the first time.

“Maybe he's visiting a friend?” Mandy suggested, forcing optimism for her brother’s sake.

“Who the fuck knows,” Mickey muttered, despondently. “I have no idea where he’d be. Still didn’t stop me fuckin’ promising Fiona I’d bring him home.”

“He’ll show up, dickbreath.” Mandy nodded. “Always does, eventually.”

Mickey downed his fourth shot from the bottle of whiskey. He was starting to feel nicely buzzed. Again. “He's a fuckin adult. He can do what he wants.”

“Mickey…” Mandy leaned towards her brother and rubbed his arm.

Mickey swatted his sister’s hand away, half-heartedly. “It ain't like we're fuckin together. He don't need to answer to me,” he grumbled as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefingers. 

“Doesn't mean you aren’t allowed to care, arsehole.”

“What the fuck ever. I'm done with him. Ian Gallagher can go fuck himself.”

Mandy rolled her eyes, knowing that wasn’t true. She’d heard her brother say those words more times than she could count, and yet here they were. “You know you don't mean that.”

“The hell I don't!” Mickey yelled, shooting forward in his seat and burying his head in his hands. He almost laughed hearing the familiar old lies tumbling from his mouth. Of course he wasn’t done with Ian. If he was, he wouldn’t have spent twenty four hours in a drunken stupor. 

Mandy put her hand on her brother’s shoulder, playfully shaking him. She hated seeing him like this. “He’ll come back home, soon, Mickey. It's shitty of him to just bail on us, but I think he needs time out sometimes.. we both know he kinda gets like that.”

“Thought it could be different, this time. Me and him,” Mickey mumbled, feeling a prickling sensation behind his eyes. He willed the tears to stay in his eyes. There was no fucking way he was going to cry about Ian Gallagher in front of Mandy. She’d never let him live it down.

Mandy didn’t know what to say. She hadn't seen her brother like this before. She'd seen him at varying levels of pissed off, she'd seen him defensive and upset, she'd seen him bleeding and bruised and she'd tended to his wounds. But this - this was something else. Sure, he was drunk, but there was a hopeless edge to his voice that was unfamiliar to her. It actually kind of scared her. From what Mickey had told her, the whole thing sounded like a misunderstanding. All she knew was that when Ian returned, they’d be having a serious fucking talk. 

“I think it will all work out, arseface. If you want to get back with him or you don’t. Shit will sort itself out,” she offered. 

“Don’t care.” Mickey snapped, trying desperately to push his concerns about Ian to the back of his mind. “Can we talk about literally _anything_ else?”

“Okay,” Mandy nodded. She paused, trying to think of a nice, safe topic. Something unrelated to Ian Gallagher. “I had a look for a job today. Really couldn't find anything much.”

“Yeah, there's fuck all out there,” Mickey agreed. “Least you don’t gotta fuckin’ record.”

“I'm probably going to end up at some fast food joint again,” she groused. “I was hoping for some bar work because the tips would be really fucking nice. Can't be picky though, I guess.” 

“Bar work,” Mickey repeated, absentmindedly.

They were silent for a few minutes, before Mickey spoke again. “I'd like to own a fuckin’ bar.” 

“Oh, shit, Mickey!” Mandy laughed. “Are you fucking serious, right now? You'd drink all the profits.”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ serious! I'd like to own a bar,” he repeated.

Mandy had never heard her brother aspire to anything before. Not even when they were little kids. This was new. “Is that really something you would like to do?”

Mickey nodded. “Yep. If I had someone else's life. If everything I touched would stop turning to shit. If I wasn't fucked for life. If I wasn't a fuckin’ Milkovich.”

Mandy frowned at her drunken brother. “You could definitely run your own bar, shithead. The only problem is we’re poor as fucking shit.”

Mickey hiccupped a monosyllabic reply and cringed as the bitter taste of whisky and bile reverberated in his throat.

“Since when has my idiot brother been one to think about his hopes and dreams, anyway?”

Mickey chewed on his lip, searching himself for the answer. When they’d lived under the terrifying shadow of Terry, he had never imagined a future existed that didn’t involve drug deals or beatdowns or stints in juvie or prison. This was definitely something new for him.

“In prison, I think,” he finally replied. “They make you do this bullshit half-arsed career course shit. It’s a total fuckin’ waste of time. There was literally nothin’ I wanted to do. Started thinkin’ that if I owned a legit business it wouldn’t be half bad.”

Mandy hummed in agreement. “You always did have an entrepreneurial spirit and you’d have the accounting skills from when you did the numbers for dad.”

“And no one would give two shits that I have priors.”

“True.” She had to admit she quite liked the idea of her brother’s bar pipedream. Too bad they could barely afford to buy food, let alone set themselves up with a real future.

“Prison.” Mickey repeated. “Fuckin’ sucked, Mands. Never goin’ back there. Still can’t say it was the worst place for me, ay.”

“Really?” Mandy asked, dumbfounded. Now she’d heard it all.

“Think I needed time out or some shit. Gave me time to think.” He shrugged.

“Like some sort of fucked up white-trash holiday?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Mickey muttered. “Fuckin’ _Eat Pray Love_ : the prison years.”

Mandy laughed. “You do seem different,” she nodded. “And I mean that in a good way, arsehole.”

“Figured you either leave the joint worse or better. Thought I’d see how _better_ worked out for me.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes and Mandy mulled over the change she’d noticed in her brother since she’d returned. He looked like the Mickey she’d left behind two years ago, but there was no denying there was something different about him. He was the same in all the best ways, but, despite his current state, he seemed more at peace with himself. She shook her head slowly in disbelief. If someone had told her she’d one day describe a Milkovich as being at peace with themselves, she’d have laughed in their fucking face.

“You could come work for me, Mands.” Mickey promised. “At my fuckin’ hypothetical bar, that I fuckin’ paid for with my hypothetical bags of money.”

“Thanks. That's why you're my favourite brother,” she humoured him.

“And I always thought it was ‘cos your other brothers are bigger fuckin’ dipshits.”

“Doesn’t hurt your case,” Mandy teased.

“Maybe there's something for you down the fuckin’ Alibi,” Mickey shrugged, drinking yet another shot of Jack. 

She laughed humourlessly. “No fuckin’ way! I'd kinda like my world to be more than the two minute walk between that shithole and this shithole,” she moaned, gesturing at the house around them. 

“That would be the name of our bar, Mands. _That Shithole.”_

Mandy giggled. “Fucking nice one. Bump it,” she purred, making a fist and knocking it against her brother’s.

Mickey lifted his head and looked around the living room. It really was a shithole. A shitty house, full of mostly shitty memories. He suddenly wondered why they all still lived there. 

“One day,” he said slowly, “I swear to fuckin’ god I am going to burn this mother fuckin’ house down to the ground.”

Mandy flinched, and looked at her brother with exaggerated concern. “Hopefully not with us still in it, dickbrains.”

“I'll give you all the heads up first,” Mickey nodded. “Aren't you fuckin’ sick of this house, Mands? I fuckin hate it. We're all too good for it. Why haven't we moved?”

“Yeah I hate it. Why the fuck wouldn't I?” Mandy swallowed the lump in her throat, as her own memories of the hell she endured in that house, inched their way towards the front of her mind. “I guess we haven't moved because dear old dad owns it and we live here rent free.”

“Ian looked good in this house,” Mickey lamented sadly. “His red hair and shit. Looked real nice, ay. Like a fuckin’ black and white movie turned into colour.”

Mandy blinked, surprised by the strangely romantic admission from her brother. “Well, um.. he’ll look good in this house again.. if that's what you want.”

Mickey didn’t say anything else. He closed his eyes and sighed as his mind replayed the moment from the rooftop when he could have kissed Ian, but didn't. He imagined they were back there on the roof, that he’d chosen to kiss Ian this time. Ian’s mouth against his, their lips parting, Ian slowly and gently fucking inside Mickey’s mouth with his tongue. He imagined running his hands all over the skin on Ian's chest, kissing his neck and breathing in the scent of him.

“Mmmm,” he hummed unintentionally.

Mandy looked at her brother curiously. “You still with us, douchebag?”

Mickey nodded slowly.

“Keep messaging him,” Mandy said in encouragement, “text him some sweet nothings or whatever the fuck it is you two losers talk about.”

She waited for a response from her brother, but he was silent. “You gonna be okay?” she asked. “I’m gonna go to bed, unless you feel like getting your arse kicked at Call of Duty or something?”

“M’fine,” Mickey mumbled.

“Okay. Goodnight, shithead.” Mandy eyed the now half empty bottle of spirits her brother was still clinging to. “Hope oblivion works out for you.” She mussed up her brother’s hair as she passed him and went to bed.

Mickey cradled his bottle of Jack Daniels and stomped his way to the backyard. He looked up at the sky. The sky wasn’t telling him anything tonight. It just stared back at him, empty and unsupportive, mocking him. 

Mickey sat down on the back steps, supporting his drunken body against the bannister. He wasn’t even sure what day it was; it was just another day not knowing where the fuck Ian was. Christ, it had only been a little over a week since Mickey had let Ian back into his life and he had already jumped on Ian Gallagher’s merry-go-round of crazy fucking bullshit. Mickey was whipped. He really had no hope when it came to Ian Gallagher. He wondered what he would do if Ian barged in right now. He’d probably welcome him home with open fucking arms, asking to hear the stories of his travels.

He called Ian’s phone again, listening to the hollow, unsympathetic ringing sound, knowing in his heart that the redhead wouldn’t pick up. It rang out, so wherever he was, he was still charging his phone. Mickey found this to be somewhat reassuring. _Probably not living in a fucking crack house this time._

Mickey pressed the bottle to his lips, and gulped down another large shot. He sat alone on the steps for a while longer, sinking one shot of whisky after another. Jack Daniels. On its own. No mixer.

* * *

Ian looked down at the thick wad of papers Nate had placed in his lap. He swallowed, nervously.

_Alt Java, Pty. Ltd. Employee Agreement._

He looked up at Nate’s excited face without speaking.

“It’s that cafe down on the corner, Ian,” Nate explained. “Me and the manager go way back. You know Andrew, that guy we went for drinks with that time?”

Ian nodded silently.

“He’s the manager. Anyway, they have a position available - slinging coffees. You’d be a barista,” Nate continued.

“Oh, right,” Ian said quietly. He reached for his beer, swilling a gulp around in his mouth before swallowing.

“This will be good for you. You won’t have to work at the diner anymore.”

Ian clenched his jaw in irritation. “I don’t need handouts,” he muttered. He also didn’t need other people telling him what would be good for him. Especially without consulting him first. He wasn’t a charity case.

Nate shook his head. “Don’t think of it like that. Seventy per cent of all job vacancies are filled through word of mouth. You’re in the majority here.” Nate grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “All you have to do is sign these forms, and once you’re past probation - three months, I think he said - you’ll get health insurance.”

Nate’s words slapped Ian in the face, tearing him away from his stubborn ruminations. “Health insurance,” Ian repeated.

“Yeah. It won’t be the best - it’s like the lowest level of cover. But it’s better than nothing, right?” Nate nodded, expectantly. “It will help with your prescriptions and therapist appointments.”

_That would help. That would help everyone._

Ian hummed in consideration. He couldn’t deny that health insurance made the job offer tempting. Still, something just didn’t feel right. He didn’t like the idea of major life decisions being made for him without his involvement. And he knew that very few things in life landed in the lap of Gallagher’s without there being a hidden catch.

“The commute would be a bitch,” Ian groused half-heartedly, mentally calculating that he would spend fifty minutes each way on the El. “It’s too far to travel.” 

“Well,” Nate said slowly, shifting closer to him on the couch. “Why don’t you just move the rest of your stuff in here?”

“What?” Ian almost choked. _What the fuck?_

“Move in here with me,” Nate said blithely, shrugging like it was no big deal.

“Uh, well I-,” Ian stammered. He felt sick suddenly. He couldn’t understand how this conversation had escalated so quickly. A job offer had suddenly become an invitation to shack up. All within one five minute conversation.

“You’ve been here all week and it’s been great,” Nate said. “We have fun together. Let’s just do it. Why the hell not?”

Ian sat back on the couch and closed his eyes, his skin prickling in panic and his heart pounding. Everything was spiralling out of his control. He was suddenly and completely filled with the most intense feeling of remorse he had ever experienced. He should never have come here. He should be with Mickey right now. Even if they weren’t friends. Even if friends is all they’d ever be. He should be at home, back in fucking Southside, fighting for Mickey. They belonged together. In one way or another they were meant to be in each other's lives. Mickey might not see it yet, but he’d realise it eventually. 

“You’d be free of all the Southside drama,” Nate said teasingly. “You know, whatever caused you to show up here in the middle of the night…”

Ian sighed. He hadn’t told Nate why he’d arrived at this house earlier in the week. _I'm tired of the drama_ , is all he had said. 

“My mother showed up,” he muttered, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. “I can’t be around her.”

“Your own mother?” Nate asked, incredulously. “Why?”

Ian looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. “It’s a long story. She comes and goes, has done our entire lives,” he began, wanting to keep this conversation as brief as possible. “She always has some crazy idea or she needs money and promises to stick around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Nate said quietly. “That must be difficult.”

Ian huffed. “Everytime she shows up, she gets into my head and then-,” he abruptly stopped talking. A strange, unfamiliar feeling creeping over him. His skin erupted in sudden, unexplainable goose bumps.

_She disappears._

“When I-.”

_She leaves._

“I let myself believe it will be different this time and-,” he stammered. He could hear himself speaking, but it was as if his words were being spoken by someone else, about someone else. About _him._

_She takes off._

“She takes off…” he murmured in disbelief.

_Just like I did._

The last piece of the puzzle finally fell into place inside his head, the slow and bitter realisation dawning on him. It was obvious. So fucking obvious, but he hadn’t been able to see it until now.

_She gets into my head and when I let myself believe it will be different this time, she takes off. Just like I did._

Ian stood up, abruptly, running his fingers through his hair, strands sticking to his palms. His hands were sweating. “I shouldn't be here. I need to go home,” he said, quickly. “I'm sorry. I'm not running away from you. I'm not. I’m really not. I'm just.. I’m going home.”

_I’m going home to Mickey. Because I should never have fucking left him._

“Did I say something wrong, Ian?” Nate asked, confusion written all over his face. “I spooked you, didn’t I?”

Ian paused, eyes darting around the apartment, not knowing what to say. “I just need to go home.”

“Let me grab my keys. I’ll drive you.”

Ian shook his head. “It’s okay. I’ll take the El. I feel like the walk.”

“Okay, well.. “ Nate said, thinking. “I can see you’re hesitant about all this. You’ve obviously got family stuff going on.. If you want to take some time to think about the job and us...”

Ian was silent. All he could think about was Mickey, how he’d fucked everything up again after he’d promised himself, promised Mickey that everything would be different this time. Better.

“Let’s take a bit of a break or something. Just think about what you want to do. Think about what is next for us.. And let me know?”

“Okay,” Ian replied, nodding. He quickly dashed to Nate's room and unceremoniously stuffed his belongings back in his duffel bag.

Nate grabbed Ian’s forearm as he made a beeline for the front door, pulling their bodies together. “You’ll need to take those forms to Alt Java in the next week or so, okay?”

Ian nodded. “Thanks. You did a really nice thing for me.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Nate shrugged. He cupped Ian’s face in his hands and placed a lingering kiss on Ian's lips.

Ian’s body tensed at the contact. He didn’t feel pleasure, or exhilaration or even the faintest inkling of affection. He didn’t need to take any time out to realise they were done. But there was too much going on. A fucking job offer that was almost too good to refuse, from a boyfriend he didn’t want anymore. And all he could think about was Mickey, and how he’d walked off and left him sitting there on the rooftop. How he’d probably ruined whatever semblance of relationship was left between them. 

He no longer fully understood why he’d even stormed off on Mickey in the first place. He'd felt hurt and disappointed after he'd spent so long thinking about seeing Mickey again, talking to him, fantasising about getting back together; to think that Mickey didn't even consider them friends felt like he was being stabbed. It had seemed like a big deal at the time. But now it was really just another stupid thing in a long list of stupid things. Once again, this was entirely his fucking fault. In his frantic desperation to avoid his own mother - to avoid her cunning manipulations - he’d bailed on everyone he cared about. Again. He’d gone and pulled a total Monica move, anyway. What a fucking mess.

Once out on the street, and out of the claustrophobic confines of the apartment, the fresh air provided some clarity of thought. He needed to talk to Mickey. He needed to apologise, whatever his apologies even meant anymore, and he needed to know how badly he’d messed up this time. _This time._

Ian pulled out his phone as he walked, seeing the missed calls and texts from Mickey for the first time; 

_Yo, shithead_

_Earth to firecrotch_

_I’m worried. The fuck are you, douchebag? Tell me where you are and I'll come get you._

_Come back home, Ian and we’ll talk more._

_Please._

Ian stopped in his tracks. He felt his heart breaking as he read Mickey’s last, most recent message to him. That one single word; please. Mickey was not one for pleasantries and Ian could count on one hand the amount of times Mickey had ever said _please_. It was about as close to begging as a Milkovich would ever come. Ian wiped a single, remorseful tear from his eye and kicked at an empty coke bottle that was littering the pavement. 

He continued walking, reaching the intersection that lead to the nearest El station. He paused briefly before heading in the opposite direction. He let the fresh night air fill his lungs, one deep breath at a time, as he tried to calm himself down before he made the call. He walked until the buildings grew sparse and gave way to the nature reserve that lead to the lake. He continued walking over the grass and through the trees until he could hear the gentle, peaceful lapping of the waves against the lakeshore.

Ian stopped and stared out at the late evening sky, its pastel colours reflecting against the still, glassy water of the lake. He hadn’t been here in years. It was so much more beautiful than he remembered it. He swiped through his phone until he got to Mickey’s number. His call picked up on the first ring.

“Hey Mick.”

“Christ, Ian. Where the fuck are you?” Mickey answered, his voice sounding hoarse.

“I'm.. I'm at the lake,” Ian replied, surprising even himself.

“Lake? What lake?”

 _“The_ lake _,_ Mick. Lake Michigan,” Ian explained, with a laugh.

“The fuck you there for?”

“I’m actually not sure,” Ian shrugged to himself.

There was a pause on Mickey's end. “Fuck, Ian. Are you high?”

“No, I'm not. I’m coming home.”

“Stay where you are. Don't fuckin’ move. I'm coming,” Mickey demanded. Ian could hear him moving around quickly on the other end of the line.

“I can catch the El, I just needed to hear your voice,” Ian argued.

“Shut the fuck up. I'm on my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one! Thanks for reading.
> 
> I may have also spent a disproportionate amount of time thinking up a silly hipster name for the cafe. Priorities! 
> 
> I'm looking forward to the next chapter a lot.


	9. The Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ian!” Mickey's voice jolted Ian from his melancholy. He stood up, turning around to see Mickey's dark outline walking towards him, flicking his cigarette onto the cement.
> 
> “Mick,” he rasped tearfully, and suddenly Mickey's arms were around him, fingers travelling through the short hairs at the back of his head, while Ian sobbed uncontrollably into the soft, warm skin of Mickey's neck.
> 
> “Don't disappear on me again, man. Just.. don't,” Mickey mumbled and Ian's sobbing only intensified.

_**14 years earlier** _

The Gallagher kids had never seen the beach. They’d seen it on tv and read about it in books, but they’d never visited one. Family outings just weren’t a feature of their young lives, not when they’d spent most of their time to date living out of a car, miserable, cold and alone, eating food that Frank and Monica had stolen or found in the dumpsters behind the supermarket. The day that Monica had taken them to Lake Michigan was the first time they’d ever experienced the sand between their toes, felt waves washing against their skin and the first time they’d looked at the horizon and seen water as far as their eyes could see. 

Summer rolled around and they hadn’t seen their mother in months. It might have been the longest they’d gone without seeing or hearing from her back then, if any of the kids were keeping track. Monica had been gone for long enough, probably close to a year, for Debbie to have turned one, transforming from baby to curious toddling mini-human under ten year old Fiona’s careful watch. Nobody knew where Monica had been but when she finally returned, the Gallagher kids listened intently as she relayed story after wistful story about the beach, and the waves and the surf and how if you looked out at the water on the horizon for long enough, everything made sense. Life, the universe, all of it.

It was a beautiful, bright summer morning in July, when Fiona, Lip, Ian and Debbie awoke to their mother’s enthusiastic plans of a family trip to the beach at Lake Michigan. She gushed endlessly about Lake Michigan and how the water was clear and vast and beautiful and if you travelled far enough in any direction you would end up in Michigan or Indiana or even Wisconsin. They marvelled at the very idea that something so beautiful and full of possibility existed outside of the struggle and squalour of the Southside.

They scrambled out of bed, full of anticipation and excitement, preparing as best they could for their day at the lake. Fiona was concerned with the practicalities of making sandwiches, and filling drink bottles and working out which El route they needed to take to the lake. She was only ten but she already knew better than to trust these details with Monica; that Monica could only be relied upon for her infectious enthusiasm. According to Monica the only things they needed to take with them were their beautiful smiles and a positive attitude, but seven year old Lip knew that this couldn’t be right. He knew they needed swimsuits but they didn't have any, so he convinced Ian that underpants were pretty much the same thing, especially for boys. 

Ian wondered what people actually did at the beach besides look at the water, so Lip started doing some research. He consulted a Little Golden Book they had found in the attic of Aunt Ginger’s house where they had been living for a few months. The book told the story of Nancy and Timmy and the drawings they drew in the sand, the shells they collected and sandcastles created with their buckets and spades. The children in the book looked so happy, that Lip and Ian became quickly convinced that the fictional characters had considerable expertise when it came to appropriate beach activities. They would need spades and buckets if they were really going to do this properly, so Lip hastily scoured the neighbourhood until he found a backyard sandpit unattended for long enough for him to steal the plastic equipment they needed to make sandcastles. When he returned to the house, proudly showing off their new toys, Ian was overjoyed. They were going to have a great time. It would be just like they’d seen in the book. 

The beach was everything Monica had promised it would be; the water was clean and crystal clear and stretched out as far as they could see, distant and sparkling in the summer sunlight. Their ears were filled with the sounds of waves and the playful noises of other children, running, and splashing and enjoying the water and the sun. Monica played with Debbie in the shallows and Lip and Ian exclaimed repeatedly that this was the most fun they had ever had in their entire lives. Fiona had looked on nodding and smiling her beautiful wide smile. They used their new spade set to build sandcastles and dig large holes in the sand and watched in fascination as the waves rolled in, filling their freshly ploughed holes with water, swirling sand around until their handiwork had evened out and washed away. It was magical.

Other children at the lake were eating icecreams and Ian asked Monica if they could have icecreams too. “Yes baby, of course you can have an ice cream,” Monica cooed. Fiona and Lip wanted chocolate and Ian and Debbie would be having vanilla. They watched as Monica wandered off in the direction of the food kiosk, their stomachs rumbling in anticipation, and returned to playing at the water’s edge under Fiona's supervision.

Parents and children alike were walking to the kiosk and returning a short time later with icecreams and drinks, and the Gallagher kids grew impatient, realising they had been waiting a lot longer for theirs. Ian and Lip were becoming grumpy, annoyed by the injustice of watching the other children greedily consuming their icecreams while the four of them went without. More time passed and the brothers noticed that Fiona seemed different, her gaze shifting nervously between the direction they had last seen their mother and the watch that was still strapped to her arm.

Ian wasn't sure how long they had been waiting for Monica to return with their icecreams when Fiona grabbed Debbie and bundled them all up with their belongings and walked them over the sand to the kiosk. Fiona led them to the changing rooms, sending Lip in to check the male changing rooms, while she waited with Ian and Debbie for him to come back before she checked the women's.

“What is it? What are we looking for?” Ian asked his brother, but Lip stared down at his sandy feet without replying.

With Monica nowhere to be found, they headed back to the sand to their original spot, laid out their towels and sat down in silence. Ian wasn’t sure what was going on, but he could tell that playtime was over. Fiona was silent and had started nervously fussing with her hair, and he knew that something was very wrong. Their older sister looked worried and sad. Suddenly, the lake wasn't fun anymore.

It started becoming cooler and the gentle breeze grew stronger, becoming gusty, picking up particles of sand and whipping them against their bare, stinging legs. Other families were packing up their beach gear and leaving, but their mother still hadn't returned with their icecreams. They watched as the beach gradually emptied until the only people left besides themselves, were adults jogging and walking near the water’s edge. Ian started crying, unsure why exactly, but unable to stop, regardless. 

Fiona finally broke her silence and declared they would be going home on the El without their mother. “She will be waiting for us at Aunt Ginger’s,” she said with a quick smile and a nod. Without money for the return train fare home, Lip attempted, unsuccessfully, to sell their buckets and spades to the last few remaining children in the car park. 

Fiona marched them off in the direction of the El, Ian still crying and Lip tightly holding his hand. In their excitement and naivete, the two boys had forgotten to bring spare underwear so they walked awkwardly and uncomfortably in their wet underpants, gritty with sand, tired and hungry with long, sad faces. 

At the station Fiona began begging. By this stage, Debbie was screaming and Ian knew from previous experience that his hot, streaming tears were finally good for something; the more hopeless they looked, the more fruitful the outcome. Eventually, a kind old lady took pity on the four hopeless children, giving Fiona enough money for all their train fares and then some. Fiona studied the El timetable and led them to their platform to wait for the train back to Canaryville.

It was dark by the time they arrived back at Aunt Ginger’s house, hungry, upset and confused and Monica was nowhere to be found. They didn't see her again until she returned months later with newborn baby Carl in her arms. None of them had returned to the lake.

* * *

Ian sat down on the edge of the sea wall. He had earlier vague memories of Monica disappearing, but their trip to Lake Michigan had taught him his first bitter lesson about their mother and the anticipation and disappointment she inevitably brought with her. It was the first time he could remember truly understanding that Monica couldn’t be relied upon, that Monica would lure them in with smiles and promises and excitement, but no matter what, she would always leave. 

But the saddest part of all, was knowing that he and his siblings would always retain a small inkling of hope that she would change, that she would be better or at the very least that she wanted to try. Because Monica was still their mother, and they loved her and when you loved someone, you let yourself hope. 

Ian briefly entertained the thought that maybe Mickey had come to the same conclusion about him, and felt both optimistic and sickened at the same time. 

For a long time Ian had wanted to know where Monica had disappeared to when she’d gone to buy their icecreams and never returned. But as he got older, he realised that it really didn’t matter where she’d gone, because Monica, always unmedicated, would disappear at the slightest hint of something more exciting. For a brief moment, long enough for her to disappear from their lives for months, she had seen something that was more interesting to her than her own family. If nothing else, Ian knew those weren't his reasons. Everytime he’d taken off it had been because of some fucked up self-preservation instinct. Avoidance tactics. Because there had been something behind him that was too painful to face; Mickey’s inability to admit his feelings, his own bipolar disorder, and now Monica herself. 

He knew now that this latest disaster could probably have been avoided if he’d stuck around at the rooftop and listened to what Mickey had to say, and probably even admitted to him how Mickey’s words had made him feel. If he’d been able to open up, he probably would have told him how he felt about Monica’s latest reappearance too and maybe he wouldn’t have felt so alone. 

Ian always felt everything so intensely and so fiercely, that sometimes it surprised him that his own feelings weren’t immediately obvious to everyone else. He forgot that people didn’t just _know_ how things affected him. And it had been so long since he had felt that anyone understood him that talking about how he felt no longer came naturally to him at all. Even though he loved his siblings, Ian knew they didn’t understand him. Lip used to, or he'd tried, but things had changed between them - they had changed - since Ian had become serious about Mickey. After a while, it had become easier just to keep everything to himself. 

Ian knew he wanted Mickey, but he really did want everything to be better than it had been before. Now everything was fucked up again, but he couldn’t blame the bullshit of Southside life this time; he could only blame himself. He had to work out how he could be better this time around. He was sick of living almost entirely in his own head and he wanted an emotional connection with Mickey again. But Ian had retreated further inside himself, while Mickey had grown and changed. 

Ian realised he was going to have to be more open. He couldn’t just storm off to silently brood and just assume that Mickey knew what the fuck was going on with him. They had to be there for each other. He had to be there for Mickey, too. Everything Mickey had said about working up to where they were before made complete sense now. Ian just had to try and be patient and allow them both to get back there. And he knew he had to conquer this fear, this barrier, or whatever the fuck it was, and allow himself to open up. 

Ian just hoped after the latest shit he’d pulled, that Mickey still wanted it at all, that he still wanted him. 

These realisations made Ian feel lighter, somehow. Things were becoming clear to him in a way they never had before. He laughed out loud. Monica had been fucking right when she had told them if you looked at the water for long enough everything started to make sense. 

“Ian!” Mickey's voice jolted Ian from his melancholy. He stood up, turning around to see Mickey's dark outline walking towards him, flicking his cigarette onto the cement. 

“Mick,” he rasped tearfully, and suddenly Mickey's arms were around him, fingers travelling through the short hairs at the back of his head, while Ian sobbed uncontrollably into the soft, warm skin of Mickey's neck.

“Don't disappear on me again, man. Just.. don't,” Mickey mumbled and Ian's sobbing only intensified.

 

* * *

Their walk back to the car was slow and silent. Ian's head was swirling with the things he needed to say, but he was hesitant. Not because he didn't know what to say this time, but because he wasn’t sure whether Mickey would actually want to hear any of it. Maybe Mickey was truly sick and tired of his shit this time? He didn't seem angry, but Ian could hardly blame him if he was. He just knew he couldn’t go all the way back to the Southside without trying to explain what was going on with him.

“I'm sorry, Mickey,” Ian offered, quietly.

Mickey sighed. He’d spent two days upset and in a drunken stupor, while he had no idea where Ian was. He’d been pissed off at Ian but more than anything else, he had been worried about him; worried that he wouldn’t come back, that he was hurt or in danger, and worried that whatever relationship they had now, would continue be plagued by Ian’s acts of self-sabotage. But the irony was, and there was always irony, because Mickey's life seemed positively riddled with it, his feelings for Ian had only become clearer. He knew without a fucking doubt now that he was still in love with Ian Gallagher. Sure, Mickey was still pissed off that Ian disappeared again, but his annoyance was no match for his utter fucking relief that the redhead was standing before him again, alive, safe and seemingly well.

Mickey stopped walking and Ian followed suit, so they were standing in the dark, face to face. “The fuck happened, Ian? Why’d you take off?”

Ian swallowed. “Do you.. do you really want to know what is going on in my head?” he asked, nervously, waiting for a response. 

“I asked, didn't I?” Mickey replied, bluntly, eyebrow slightly raised.

Ian sighed and nodded. “Well, it's just that we never really talked about.. most things.” He shrugged. “If we'd stayed together, if everything hadn't happened.. would you have wanted to hear about all my crap?” 

Mickey tilted his head upwards, briefly looking at the sky. “I told you I was there for you, man,” he shook his head in disbelief, then heard himself saying, “you know, when you were breakin’ up with me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.” Mickey sighed. He was still so resentful about the way Ian broke up with him, it was almost impossible not to throw those little barbs out there. “I wanted a real fuckin’ relationship with you. Hearing about your shit was part of the deal.”

Ian glanced nervously at Mickey. “And now?”

“I wanna know why you fuckin’ walked off on me and why you split,” he replied, his voice heavy with frustration. 

“I got scared. I freaked out, Mick.” Ian said, feebly scuffing at the ground with his shoes. “Monica's back.”

“That's why you left?” 

Ian shrugged. “I thought we already were friends and I just.. I was upset and I just wanted to go home,” he explained, realising suddenly how ridiculous he sounded. “She was there when I got back and.. I.. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't be around her and I just thought.. I thought I could stay away from you this way. I figured you wouldn’t notice I’d gone.”

Mickey ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply. “I never..” He started, trying to understand how Ian got the idea he wanted him to stay away after their conversation on the rooftop. “I never fuckin’ asked you to stay away, Ian.”

“But you said-,” Ian interjected, but Mickey cut him off.

“No. I never fuckin’ said that!” Mickey almost yelled. Fuck, Ian could really push his buttons. “I just can't.. I can't jump back into a relationship with you like nothin’s changed, man. I want to.. but I can't.”

 _He wants to. He fucking wants to._ Ian committed Mickey’s words to memory, before changing the subject. “She scares me, Mick,” he admitted. “Monica.”

Mickey snorted a cynical laugh. “She fuckin’ scares me too, man.” Fucking Monica. Everytime he heard her name, he waited for the other fucking shoe to drop.

Ian shook his head. “No, I mean.. I haven't seen her since last time, you know..“ he looked away as an uncomfortable mixture of shame and embarrassment washed over him. 

“Ian-.” Mickey took a reluctant step towards Ian, awkwardly keeping his arms to his side, as he battled the urge to hold him.

“And you're back and we’re talking, at least. I'm scared she'll get inside my head.. like before,” Ian muttered, palming at his forehead.

“You're doing better now, you won't-.”

“I _am_ doing better! That's the problem,” Ian exclaimed, his voice caught somewhere between a reluctant laugh and a yell. 

Mickey raised an eyebrow and chewed on his bottom lip. He didn’t understand how that could be a problem.

Ian noticed Mickey’s confusion and paused, trying to find the right words to explain. “It was.. it was hard to get here, Mick. Everything is such an effort now, just forcing myself to take those pills everyday, the routine, getting enough sleep, trying to reduce stress.. it's hard.. and I've barely moved. What have I even done?” his voice cracked, as a lump formed in his throat. “I'm still working at that stupid _fucking_ diner, no goals.. no idea what to do..”

The hopelessness in Ian’s voice made Mickey’s heart ache. He couldn't help himself. He reached out and wrapped his arms around him for the second time that night. “It's okay, man. It's okay. There ain’t no rush. You'll figure shit out in time,” Mickey tried to comfort him. He’d always thought it must have really thrown Ian for a fucking loop being forced to give up on his army dreams after he’d fixated on them for years.

Ian took a deep, shaky breath and continued his train of thought. “And she shows up and.. even though I know she's a fucking terrible mother.. I.. I'm scared she can..“ he stammered through his sobs. _Jesus Christ,_ he was sick of crying. “I'm scared she can still ruin me. I'm scared that I could still just say _fuck it all_ and.. fuck - I don't want to hurt you again.”

Mickey released Ian from his hug, leaving his hands on his shoulders. “Nah, man. I ain't gonna let her. Not this time.” He said resolutely, looking directly into Ian’s eyes and squeezing his shoulders. “Whatever is going on with us, I got your back, aight. Always.”

“Mickey..” Ian murmured, unable to finish his sentence. _I fucking love you._

Mickey’s face took on a stern expression. “If she's gettin’ to you, just come to me,” he said, the familiar hint of bossiness creeping into his voice. “But don't shut me out. Don't run off on me, again. I'm fuckin’ serious, Ian.”

Ian nodded, looking down at his shoes defeatedly. “I'm scared I'm going to end up like her, Mick. I fucking took off again, what does that make me?”

Mickey sighed. “You ain’t her, Ian. You ain't gonna end up like her,” he said pointedly.

Ian shook his head and wiped at the tears that were still falling. “How do you know? You can't possibly know that.”

“Cos you're already worried about it,” Mickey shrugged, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You think she ever had this conversation with fuckin’ Frank? You think she ever worried that she’d abandon her fuckin’ kids?”

Ian shook his head, no.

Mickey gave Ian’s shoulder a friendly shake. “Exactly. You ain't gonna end up like her, just like I ain’t gonna end up like my old man. Because I don't fuckin’ wanna. And neither do you.”

Ian choked out one final sob and buried his head into Mickey’s neck. He should have known Mickey would understand. “I don't know what I ever did to deserve you, Mick.” 

Mickey laughed loudly, trying to make light of yet another awkward compliment that he didn’t know what to do with. “I dunno, man. I remember something to do with a tyre iron.”

Ian laughed quietly. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

Mickey shrugged. “Just don't gimme another reason to have to, ay?” He put an around Ian’s shoulders in a friendly gesture. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

They made small talk in the car on the way back to the Southside. As they closed the gap between themselves and Canaryville, Ian became increasingly anxious. He pictured himself walking back into his house, and he groaned, remembering that Lip was home from college. Lip was the last person he felt like seeing tonight. He imagined the verbal beat-down he would receive from Fiona, which he knew he would deserve, and his brother’s eyerolls and sarcastic quips and he realised, the only person he wanted to be with tonight was Mickey.

The words were out of Ian’s mouth before he’d thought it through properly. “Can I sleep on your couch?” he asked. “Lip is at home and I just..-”

Mickey huffed in surprise. He hadn’t actually given any thought to where he was taking Ian, other than back to the Southside. He sighed. “My cousins are over, man. Someone’s already got dibs on it.”

Ian hummed, undeterred. “I can sleep with Mandy, she won’t care. We can gossip about you all night,” he persisted.

Mickey laughed, as he remembered what Mandy was upto that night. “She’s on a fuckin’ date, man. Some douchebag she picked up at the dollar store,” he shook his head in bemusement. “So she might… you know.. need the bed to herself.”

“The dollar store?” Ian giggled briefly, before becoming sombre. “It’s okay, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just go home.”

Mickey was silent, rubbing his teeth on his bottom lip. A sleepover. He was trying to avoid a situation with Ian that he wasn't ready for, but if he was honest, he didn’t want Ian to go home either. He wasn’t as pissed off at Ian for running away as he thought he’d be, now he knew that Ian didn’t do it out of spite. Mickey wasn’t stupid; he knew that Ian had probably been at his fucking boyfriend’s mansion or whatever the fuck, and they still had shit they really fucking needed to talk about but right now, he kinda just wanted to hang out with his old friend. It would be nice to go back home and play videogames or watch a movie or some shit, like they used to. Mickey had really fucking missed that.

“You can sleep on the floor in my room,” he decided, finally. “But you gotta text Fiona and let her know you’re okay. I fuckin’ promised her.”

Ian nodded his agreement as he pulled out his phone and started tapping out a message.

* * *

Back at the Milkovich house, they sat on the couch in the living room, drinking beer and eating pizza leftover from that night’s dinner. They played Call of Duty and Tekken and Mario Kart, giggling and playfully abusing each other like a couple of fifteen year olds, while Mickey’s brothers and cousins played rowdy games of poker at the kitchen table. 

Neither of them mentioned Monica or Ian taking off, or any of the shit that they both knew they still needed to talk about, but they were okay with that for now. Hanging out and playing video games was one of Mickey’s favourite things to do with Ian aside from fucking him, and he was just grateful they were both in the same room again for it to be happening. 

They stole brief, furtive glances at each other while they were playing and when they wound up inching towards each other on the couch, their knees and arms touching, neither of them bothered to move. Ian realised that hanging out with Mickey like this, like they used to before everything went to shit, was the happiest he had felt in years. 

When Ian took his nighttime meds and he was unable to stifle his yawns, his body unwittingly slumping against Mickey’s, they decided it was time to go to bed.

Mickey threw Ian a pillow for the floor and produced the old, red blanket from the dark recesses under his bed. _If that blanket could talk,_ Mickey mused inwardly.

“Such a gracious host,” Ian teased, arranging the pillow and laying down on his back in an attempt to get comfortable on the floor.

“Ay, never promised you the Four Seasons, man,” Mickey laughed, stripping off to his boxers and a tshirt and climbing into his own bed. “You gotta perfectly adequate bed in your own house if my hospitality ain’t good enough for ya.”

Ian rolled his eyes at Mickey’s faux-annoyance and shifted his body awkwardly on the floor. “Mick, when is the last time you vacuumed in here?” He groused, brushing floor debris of unknown origin from his arms and legs.

Mickey hummed, trying to remember the last time he’d seen anyone vacuum. Hell, he didn’t even know if they still owned a vacuum. “Fuck, man. That musta been.. remember that time when you.. you were.. you know-.”

“Hypomanic.”

Mickey nodded. “And you started fuckin’ cleaning the house and throwin’ shit away.”

“That was the last time?” Ian asked, trying to avert the feeling of guilt that was slowly making its home in his stomach. “So over two years ago?”

“Far as I fuckin’ know. Why?”

Ian laughed. “The floor smells, Mick,” he admitted, sheepishly. “And the carpet is threadbare. The weave is rubbing and digging into me.”

Mickey scoffed and threw a stray sock at Ian’s head. “Poor little princess.”

“Poor Yevgeny,” Ian retorted, throwing the sock back and hitting Mickey on the head. “Having to crawl around on this shit. It's unhygienic.”

Mickey, rolled over and groaned loudly into his pillow as he realised he was quickly losing control of this situation. “Fuckin fine!” he exclaimed. “Get in the fuckin’ bed.” 

“Are you sure, because-,” Ian started, but he knew that his heart wasn’t really in this argument.

“Anything to shut up your fuckin’ whining,” Mickey muttered, ending Ian’s protests. “Come to bed.”

Ian's stomach fluttered pleasantly, as Mickey’s words went straight to his dick. He wanted to hear Mickey say that every night. _Come to bed, Ian. Come back to bed._

“Thanks, Mickey,” Ian said, as he tried to imagine something unpleasant enough to chase away the raging boner that had grown beneath his boxers.

“You can sleep up here, but it's not-.”

“Yeah I know,” Ian interjected, not wanting Mickey to finish saying the words.

“This don't mean-,” Mickey continued.

“I know, Mick. We’re just friends,” Ian nodded, solemnly. “I promise I won’t try anything.”

Ian climbed into the bed, placing the pillow strategically in front of him to hide his erection and settled in next to Mickey on what used to be his side of the bed. He scooted over so he was as far from Mickey as possible without falling on the floor. 

“Hey wait,” Ian sat up, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “Shouldn’t we top and tail?” 

Mickey snorted. “The fuck for?” He laughed heartily. “Your dick and my butthole will be at the same position, regardless.”

“True,” Ian agreed as they both burst out into fits of near hysterical laughter. 

“And I don't want your gigantic fuckin’ feet in my face,” Mickey added with a grin.

A heavy but not entirely uncomfortable silence settled over them, as they lay in the dark, as far away from each other as possible. Mickey rolled his eyes at the absurdity of this entire situation. A month ago he had been trying to convince himself that he didn’t want Ian in his life and now, only a few weeks later, they were both attempting to platonically share Mickey’s bed. And Mickey was trying desperately to push all thoughts of what he’d like to do to Ian in his fucking bed, right out of his mind. He didn’t have a lot of faith in the willpower of himself or Ian when they were in such close proximity to each other, so he figured he needed to get something off his chest.

“Ay, I need to talk to you about somethin’,” Mickey said, nervously. He knew this conversation had the potential to end in Ian storming off for the second time in a fucking week, but he also knew they had to talk before it was too late.

“Mmmm,” Ian hummed, sleepily.

“I need you to hear me out, aight?” Mickey said, staring up at the ceiling, trying to centre his thoughts. “Don’t go gettin’ upset or nothin.’”

Ian jolted awake. It sounded serious. He flipped himself over onto his stomach and propped his head up onto his elbows, his eyes searching in the dark for Mickey’s face, his eyes.

Mickey ran his thumb over his lip. “You know I still got feelings for you, right?”

Ian nodded, hoping Mickey could make out his affirmative nod in the dark.

“This thing.. this thing with you and me,” Mickey started, waving his fingers in a vague gesture. “It ain’t gonna work if you storm off whenever you hear somethin’ you don’t like, okay man?”

Ian took a deep breath. He felt like he knew this better than anyone at this point. “I know, Mick. I know I need to be better,” he agreed. “I am going to try to be better.”

Mickey nodded, and continued, relieved that Ian was still in the room with him. “Cos even if we just stay friends, we’re gonna fight, aight. If you’re upset or pissed at me, you gotta tell me.” 

Ian felt his eyes prickling with the beginnings of fresh tears, wondering if there would ever be an end to the torrent of salt water that seemed to be forever threatening to pour down his cheeks. “I want to share everything with you, Mick,” he said quietly. “I want to do things right this time.. I’m sick of.. I’m sick of being alone.”

Mickey turned on his side so he was facing Ian and rubbed his hand gently on his arm. “You ain’t alone, Ian.”

Ian wiped at his eyes. “I am when I’m inside my own head.”

Fuck, Mickey didn’t know what to say to that. It was probably one of the saddest, yet most honest things Ian had ever said to him. He longed to press his body and his lips against Ian’s and show him in the best way he knew that he wasn’t alone, that he’d never be alone. But he just couldn’t go there yet. It was easy for Ian to make these promises, but Mickey had to see Ian trying to put them into practice before he could fully trust him again.

“Why the lake, Ian?” Mickey asked, trying to distract himself by changing the subject.

Ian managed a half-smile and laughed drily. “When we were kids, Monica took us there and left us.”

Mickey felt his eyebrows raise in disbelief. “Fuck, that's brutal, man.”

Ian nodded. “Yep. Fiona had to beg for money to get us home,” he continued, rolling his eyes in the dark. “Tonight was the first time I’d been there since. It was kinda nice. I got some thinking done.”

Mickey hummed in agreement. He was all too familiar with the unexpected consequences a peaceful, clear night could have on the chaos inside the mind. 

“Tell me something about your mother, Mick,” Ian said softly. “If you want to, that is.”

Mickey frowned in concentration as he tried to remember their mother. He remembered flashes of black hair and blue eyes and screaming matches with fucking Terry. “She used to play the violin,” he said, finally. “She was real good, ay. Could play all that classical shit.”

Ian let out a short, sharp exhale in surprise. “That's so cool, Mick. I wish I could play an instrument.”

Mickey nodded, before continuing. “Well one day, Terry came home in the worst fuckin’ mood. No idea why, but he was yellin’ at her and shit,” he paused, trying to recall the details and taking a few silent seconds to compose himself. “She said somethin’ he really didn't like and he got out a shotgun, put her hands on the table and beat her fingers with the butt end. Broke ‘em all. They didn't heal back right, ay. She never played music again.”

Goosebumps erupted over Ian’s skin in horror at Mickey’s story. He felt truly guilty that Mickey was recounting it because he’d asked him to. “Fuck, Mickey,” he gasped. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have.. I’m sorry.” 

Mickey shrugged. “It’s okay. Happened a long ass time ago.” He paused, then snorted derisively. “Couldn’t play the violin no more, but she was still able to stick a fuckin’ needle in her arm.”

“Mickey,” Ian breathed. He badly wanted to comfort him but he wasn’t sure if he should even be touching him. “What was it she said to Terry?”

“No fuckin’ idea,” Mickey said bluntly. “She used to argue in Russian.”

Ian was shocked. “So you _can_ speak Russian?”

Mickey shook his head. “Nah, we used to hide when they argued, which was all the fuckin’ time. And that’s the only time she ever spoke it.”

Ian ran a hand through his hair, as a few more pieces of the Mickey Milkovich puzzle fell into place. “Is that why..” he started, “is that why it pisses you off when Svetlana.. ?”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed, before he reminded himself that he was okay because he was with Ian. “I guess,” he said sharply. ”Need to get the fuck over it, though. She ain’t gonna stop and the kid will be speakin’ ruski before long.”

Ian hummed, not knowing what to say, but silently marveling at the honest, intimate conversation they were having. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of Mickey’s breathing.

“What instrument would you play?” Mickey asked. “You said you wished you could play somethin’.”

“Guitar, I think,” Ian replied, eyes still closed.

“That’s cool,” Mickey agreed quietly.

* * *

It was five in the morning and the sunlight was needling its way through the gaps in Mickey’s curtains before the pair of them finally gave in to sleep. They had talked all night, actually fucking talked, and when they woke up at midday, their bodies were pressed together; Ian’s arm draped languidly over Mickey’s torso, with Mickey holding Ian’s arm against his chest.

“Whoops,” Ian said when his eyes had adjusted to the light and he became aware of the tangled mess of their bodies.

“S’okay,” Mickey said, groggily. “It’s nice.”

Ian looked towards the window, trying to estimate the time. It felt like early afternoon. “I guess I should probably be getting home,” he said hesitantly.

“Mmm,” Mickey grumbled, turning around to face Ian. God, he was fucking beautiful. Even when he was half asleep. Fuck, especially when he was half asleep.

“Fiona will be itching to yell at me by now,” Ian groaned.

“Last night..” Mickey said, trying to piece together his still sleepy train of thought. “That was pretty amazing, ay. Just talking and shit.”

Ian grinned, widely. “I know. It feels like we have known each other our entire lives.”

“You’re so corny, man.”

Ian giggled. “So I suppose I have to get up and do a walk of shame now,” he said, rolling his eyes. “A really weird walk of shame where I didn’t even get lucky.”

“Yep,” Mickey said, playfully punching Ian on the arm. 

They reluctantly rolled out of bed and quickly pulled on their clothes. Ian inhaled a deep breath and steeled himself to return home to the life he had walked away from five days ago. He remembered with a shudder the boyfriend he’d left on the Northside and the job offer and the invitation to move in. 

Ian sighed. 

It was time to go back home and face the consequences of his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I hope that Ian is making more sense to people now. I’ve had most of this fic written for a while now, so it was just a matter of getting to this chapter where Ian’s actions are explained. 
> 
> In Season 6, it annoyed me that Ian was shown as perfectly medicated, seemingly cured and gainfully employed so soon after he was clearly not in a good place in 5x12 (judging by the weather it must only have been a few weeks between 5x12 and 6x01??) and also drinking and getting high as if doing that on his medication has no consequences at all. 
> 
> Anyway, I wondered how Ian would react if he saw Monica again for the first time since he’d taken off with her and refused his medication. Because treatment nonadherence is an issue with bipolar disorder I think at this stage in his treatment (in this fic) he would still struggle with taking the medication and doing everything he needs to do to stay healthy. I don’t have experience with bipolar disorder but from second hand accounts, it seems it can take a lot of effort for patients to maintain stability and given the fact that the Gallaghers live so close to the poverty line, I think Ian’s struggle would be exacerbated by the fact that he has minimal support and unlikely to have access to the best therapists etc. Therefore, I think the temptation to give up on his medication would still be real, with him having to consciously decide to take it - even moreso if Monica is around to manipulate him. 
> 
> Like I said I don’t have experience with bipolar disorder personally, so I am sorry if I have offended anyone - it is definitely not my intention. I wanted to try and address the complexities of having the disorder - as I understand them from second hand accounts - rather than having Ian seemingly cured like in season 6, because although bipolar disorder doesn’t define him, it is still part of him.
> 
> I hope I have made sense! 
> 
> P.S. I know that Mickey is Ukrainian and in most fics he speaks Ukrainian, but at least half the population speaks Russian too, so I decided that Mickey’s mother argued in Russian.


	10. Aftershocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey couldn't sleep. He was restless, infuriated by how fucking big and empty his bed was, stretching out beside him like a vast and uninhabited land mass. Funny, how he had never noticed it before. As hard as he tried, he couldn't stop thinking about Ian. When he did fall asleep briefly, he dreamed Ian was sleeping next to him. Mickey woke with a start when he realised Ian wasn't there, the pleasant tendrils of his dream retreating, being replaced by waves of reluctant disappointment.

Ian placed his hand on the front doorknob of his house. He paused, taking stock of the amazingly warm, pleasant feeling swelling in his chest. He felt elated. _Elated._ He couldn't stop thinking about Mickey. They hadn't fucked and they weren't together, but somehow Ian felt like they were closer than they had ever been. He wondered if Mickey felt the same way. He briefly entertained the idea that he wouldn't even mind if they never got around to fucking, but deep down he knew that wasn't true. Ian had definitely wanted to and he knew wouldn't have hesitated if Mickey had been up for it, but right now, he was happy with the companionable intimacy they had fallen into the previous night. It felt like the two of them were existing inside a bubble, where nobody and nothing mattered except for them. But the bubble only stretched as far as the Gallagher’s front door and Ian knew it would burst immediately as soon as his hand turned the knob and he stepped inside. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, savouring the feeling for a minute longer.

Reluctantly, he turned the knob, opening the front door, stretching the bubble to the limits of its tether. The house was seemingly quiet. Ian definitely couldn’t hear Monica and he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. His eyes scanned his familiar surroundings and he noticed the makeshift bed underneath the stairs; Monica was definitely still around, somewhere.

With a careless slam of the front door, the bubble disintegrated and the realisation of the responsibilities he had abandoned that week, crashed down upon him; the diner, Fiona’s concern, his family, his boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. _Fuck._ A heavy feeling of guilt began curdling in his stomach.

Ian pushed his guilty feelings aside temporarily, turning to walk into the kitchen. He stopped short, realising something was different. Something was missing. Where their TV had once sat, pride of place in their living room, was now an empty space. 

_What the fuck?_

The TV had definitely been there when he was last home. He dumped his duffel bag in the kitchen and headed for the refrigerator, grabbing the orange juice and lazily sculled it directly from the carton - what his siblings didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt them. The kitchen seemed different somehow, too. Tidier. Ian furrowed his brows and worked his eyes over the benchtop which seemed uncharacteristically lacking in its usual clutter.

Their microwave. It was gone.

Ian sighed and leaned up against the kitchen bench, staring at the space that had once housed their microwave. He knew both the TV and the microwave hadn’t just happened to pack it in at exactly the same time. No, this had to have something to do with Monica. There was shuffling upstairs, and Ian listened intently as the shuffling turned into quickened footsteps. He tried to discern which Gallagher the footsteps belonged to, as they padded down the staircase.

“Ian! Ian. Oh my god! What the fuck!” 

Ian seemed to feel his sister before he saw her, as Fiona hurled herself at him in one fell swoop, enveloping him in a grateful hug. 

“Hey, Fi,” Ian mumbled into her shoulder.

The affection was short lived, and Fiona released him, as though remembering she was supposed to be angry. “You’re an arsehole! Where have you been? Where the fuck?” She squeezed the top of Ian's arms, punctuating each word with a shake.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry! Well, that’s okay then. As long as you’re fuckin’ sorry,” she cried, sarcastically and Ian looked down at his feet. “I was worried sick. I tried to keep it from the kids. I had no idea where you were, if you were even still-,” Fiona stopped herself from finishing that sentence. _If you were even still alive._

“I’m sorry, Fiona,” Ian repeated, realising yet again what a useless, ineffectual word that was.

“I’ve been lyin’ to everyone, Ian!” she continued. “I had to tell everyone at work you were sick and I had no idea when you’d be better. They probably all think you’re dyin’.”

Fiona was staring at him. Her brown eyes large and expectant, silently demanding answers.

Ian felt naked and exposed under her hopeful gaze and took a step backwards, folding his arms obstinately across his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me Monica was back?” he shot back. “When I got home on Friday night, I heard her. No one bothered to tell me.” It had been long enough that he wasn’t consumed by rage like he had been, but he still felt mildly indignant.

Fiona jerked her head forward slightly, eyebrows raised, in recognition of what had taken place. “Oh. _That’s_ when you left. _She’s_ why you left,” she said in surprise, as she put the missing pieces together. “Notice anything missin’, Ian? Debbie and Carl came home and the TV and microwave were gone. Monica stole ‘em then hocked ‘em down The Alibi for a measly two hundred. Long story. We were kinda preoccupied.”

Ian sighed and looked down at his feet in defeat. Deep down he knew he wasn’t angry at Fiona anymore, and he didn’t feel like arguing the point with her. There were always fifty other problems for her to deal with, not least of which usually involved one or both of their useless parents at any given time. He didn’t need to demand an apology for not warning him of their mother’s return. Mickey understood and he told himself that was the important thing.

“Okay,” he quietly acquiesced. “Sorry.”

Fiona paused, her expression softening. “I’m sorry too, okay. You’re right. We coulda given you a heads up.” Fiona raised her palms in the air in surrender. “But when Monica blows in, you're not the only one it affects, Ian. Debbie, Carl, Liam - it's always been confusin’ for them.”

“I truly am sorry,” he repeated. Without going into detail, there really wasn't anything else he could say.

“She hasn’t been around much, anyway. Just comes and goes at all hours, stealin’ electronics - that kinda thing,” Fiona said, in bemused resignation. She paused, running a hand through her hair. “I’m glad you’re back, Ian, but for chrissakes don’t disappear on us again, okay?” 

“I won’t,” he promised solemnly as he looked up finally, meeting his sister’s eyes. He half smiled and Fiona smiled back, a loaded silence enveloping them. As long as Fiona knew he was sorry, Ian could live with her not understanding his motivations.

Realising her brother wasn't going to offer anymore information, Fiona was the first to speak, her curiosity getting the better of her. “So…” she said, prodding at Ian's shoulder. “Where were you?” 

Ian focused on a spot above and behind Fiona's shoulder. “Uhh.. at my..” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, barely able to say the words. “At my.. boyfriend’s apartment.”

Fiona put her hands on her hips in indignation. “Well why the hell didn’t you return my calls?” 

“I was angry and upset about… a few different things,” he offered, sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

Fiona scratched her head, as a slow realisation occurred to her. She raised her eyebrows. “So you were at your boyfriend’s, and then Mickey came and got you and you spent the night at his place?”

Ian nodded. The guilt raged in his stomach, but he couldn't help feeling that Fiona had little room to judge. “It’s complicated,” he muttered. That was a fucking understatement.

“Sounds like it,” she replied in exasperation. “Is everything.. okay? You said you were upset?” 

“I’m fine,” Ian snapped, automatically.

Fiona snorted and rolled her eyes at her brother’s canned response. _I’m fine._ She exhaled deeply, an almost full-body sigh, before composing herself and straightening up. 

“Listen,” she began, her tone serious and unwavering, as she prepared to play the bossy big sister card. “We’ve got to get to work. I couldn’t find anyone to cover for you on a weekend, so you’re goin’ in. You and I have the same shift and we’re gonna take a break at the same time, and we’re gonna talk. Got it?”

Ian nodded meekly, feeling twelve years old, all too aware that his opposition was futile when Fiona took that tone with her charges.

“You got ten minutes to get ready, Ian,” she demanded, pushing him towards the staircase with one hand and skillfully pulling her hair into a messy ponytail with the other. 

Ian started taking the stairs hastily, two at a time, before he stopped and looked back at his sister. “Hey Fiona,” Ian started. “Do you remember when Monica took us to Lake Michigan?”

Ian watched as his sister straightened her posture in a physical response to the jolting recognition of the memory. She huffed, a humourless, knowing laugh as she quickly appraised her reflection in the refrigerator door. Oh yeah. She remembered it well.

“You told us she’d be waiting for us at home. Did you really believe that?” He asked.

Fiona snorted and shook her head. “Not a chance in hell, Ian.”

Ian nodded to himself. _Thought so._

* * *

Mandy made a mental note to never again date guys she met at the dollar store. That guy had been such a fucking dick. He was nice to look at but, damn he was boring. He’d spent their entire date raving on about his diet and pumping iron and his workout routine. Honestly, she’d almost fallen asleep listening to him. He had offered to pay for her though, so she’d got a free meal and drinks for her suffering. And it had been a nice meal. 

She’d gone home alone because she couldn’t stand to be around him for a second more than she had to. She'd almost lost the will to fucking live, for chrissake. He was probably on ‘roids anyway. He seemed the type. 

So Ian was back. Thank god. She was relieved he was safe, and grateful that she wouldn’t have to see Mickey upset like that again. For now, at least. She was pretty sure that one of those two idiots would do something else to dick the other around before too long. But, until then, she figured she could enjoy a temporary reprieve from Mickey’s drunken, morose wallowing.

What was strange, were the noises she’d heard from Mickey’s room. Not fucking, but talking and laughing. She’d heard them when she’d arrived home from her nightmare date and when she was woken by something around four in the morning, they were still chattering away. There were no loud groaning or slowly dying animal noises or banging of the bed against the wall to be heard. Interesting indeed.

“Hey it’s Mandy fucking Skankovich!” A voice called out from across the road. 

Mandy stole a glance from the corner of her eye and saw three losers standing around smoking under a streetlight. Probably some idiots she went to high school with. She rolled her eyes.

“Skankovich!” the voice persisted, Mandy continuing to ignore it. The other two sidekicks remained silent but she could hear them giggling childishly.

“Mandy! Come over here and suck our dicks.”

Mandy sighed and stared straight ahead, arm in the air, flipping them off. “Didn’t bring my fucking magnifying glass. Wouldn’t be able to fucking see it, douchebag!” She yelled back without even giving the three losers a sideways glance.

Jesus christ guys could be such arseholes. She wondered if that method of picking up had ever worked for any guy anywhere. What would they actually do if she’d walked over there and told them to flop their dicks out so she could get to it? She laughed, amusing herself. They'd probably shit their pants. 

That was one thing that was definitely better about being away from the Southside; nobody had called her Mandy Skankovich in Indiana, but Mandy shook off the abuse and continued on her way. She pulled out one of the papers from her bag to give her handiwork a quick once-over. It was a pretty sad looking resume; no high school diploma, and previous work experience at a handful of nondescript greasy spoons between Canaryville and Indianapolis. To be honest, she wouldn’t even give herself a fucking job. But desperate times called for desperate measures. And that’s why she was spending the weekend dropping off resumes at every minimum wage, entry level, no experience necessary establishment on the Southside. Cold canvassing is what they called it. Mandy thought it was more like hustling.

She heard footprints approaching rapidly behind her. Someone was running. The skin on the back of her neck prickled, jolting her from her thoughts. She moved her hand to her belt area, her fingers curling around the handle of the knife she never left home without. If someone was stupid enough to start shit with a Milkovich, she would at least make sure they regretted it. It was a mantra handed down to all the Milkovich kids - the one thing she could probably thank her father for - and it had served her well so far.

“Hey! Mandy!” the owner of the footsteps called out. Mandy’s body stiffened as she realised who the voice belonged to, and she released her pre-emptive hold on her knife. She prayed her apprehension had gone unnoticed.

“Oh, hey,” she purred, nonchalantly as Lip Gallagher jogged up to her, falling in line with her lanky, swaggering footsteps. She’d really hit the fucking douchebag trifecta this weekend.

“Ian said you were back,” Lip continued. “How was Indiana?”

Mandy stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He looked the same as ever. Definitely in need of a haircut, though. “Indiana was great,” she lied, flicking her hair over her shoulder, and thanking fucking god her bruises had faded.

“Must’ve been,” Lip mused, and Mandy could just tell he was smirking. “That’s why you’re back in this dump, huh?”

She cringed internally at the burn Lip had just served her. “Wanted to see my nephew and my brother,” she shrugged. “I was starting to really miss them.” There was some truth to it, at least - she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed Mickey and Yevgeny until she’d seen them again.

“Right,” Lip said, sarcastically. 

Mandy rolled her eyes. “So how’s college?” she heard herself ask. 

Lip laughed hoarsely. “College is…” he paused for a beat, trying to think of the best way to describe it. “Better than hanging around the fucking Southside, that’s for sure.”

“Cool,” she said quietly, nodding. Understandable. Most things held more appeal to her than spending her days on the fucking Southside.

“So what are you doing these days? Just visiting or you living here now?” Lip asked, as they turned a corner.

Mandy paused, wondering how to answer without sounding like she’d given up. Like she'd failed. At what, she wasn't exactly sure. “Thought I might stick around for a bit, get to know Yevgeny,” she shrugged. Kids. You really could use them as an excuse for just about anything. Not that it wasn’t partly true.

“Ahhuh,” Lip replied with mild disinterest. 

“So, what's it like? College, I mean. Is it hard?” she asked suddenly, immediately wishing she could stuff the words back in her mouth, never having given him the satisfaction of her passing interest.

Lip laughed. “Well, it’s college,” he shrugged. “It’s whatever you want it to be. It’s hard if you actually give a shit, or it’s easy if you only care about passing grades and partying and fucking around.”

“So which one are you there for?”

Lip paused, before laughing again. “All of the above.”

She smiled wryly at his answer. He hadn’t changed. He'd probably fucked his way around three quarters of the female student population by now. 

“So, you still got that gigantic fucking boyfriend?” Lip asked, kicking at a rock on the pavement, absentmindedly. “You know the one who tried - and failed, I might add - to kick my fucking arse?”

“No,” she replied shortly, shuddering as her skin reacted in an unpleasant shiver at the thought of Kenyatta. She quickly pushed the image of him out of her mind. “What about you? Still with that girl? What _was_ her name? Amanda?”

“Oh, she’s…. around,” Lip said evasively, with a smirk. “We should get a drink or something, sometime Mandy.”

Because she was now having one of those days, her heart fluttered in her chest at Lip’s offer and she felt like kicking herself. She didn’t need Lip Gallagher in her life. She really, _really_ didn’t.

“Maybe,” she shrugged, like she totally didn’t give a shit. Which, of course, she didn't.

They continued walking together in silence until Lip reached out and tried to take the papers from her hand. “What have you got there?”

Mandy snatched her hand away. “Have you no sense of… I don’t know… personal space? They’re resumes, arsehole. I need a fucking job.”

Lip huffed as he managed to pull the wad of papers from her hand on his second try. Mandy felt embarrassment rising in her face as he perused her sad list of skills and work experience. She didn’t know why she was so embarrassed, after all she had encouraged Lip to go to college - she might even be the reason he was there. He wasn't better than her. Smarter, yes. But not better. Still, it would have been nice if her return to the Southside had have been more.. triumphant. Or if her resume was a mile long with a list of skills and experience more impressive than was currently littering that paper. 

But, fuck wallowing. She thought about the conversation she’d had with Mickey when Ian was missing, how he'd told her that in prison he’d decided to be better. She didn’t need to do time to experience the decidedly fucked up epiphany that her brother had; she wasn’t going to get anywhere by lamenting what could have been and she sure as shit wasn't going to achieve it by resigning herself to a life of hauling breakfasts at fucking Waffle Cottage.

She gasped loudly in surprise, an idea suddenly occurring to her. “Hey, man I gotta go,” she said, grabbing her stack of resumes from Lip’s hands and shoving them back in her bag.

Lip shot a curious look her way, eyebrows raised, head tilted. “Oh, okay,” he said, raising his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. “I’ll text you or something.”

_Whatever._

Mandy headed in the direction of the closest El station. She needed to jump on a train quickly, before she lost her nerve and changed her mind.

* * *

At the diner, Ian's workmates greeted him with well wishes and questions and concern about his mystery illness, which Ian responded to with further lies; _feeling better now, just a really bad flu, didn't want to make anyone else sick, I thought I might sneeze into someone's meal._ By the time his break rolled around, and the last person had asked about his health, he had considered just coming clean and telling the truth for the hell of it. He hadn't, but he had developed a new appreciation for the barrage of lies Fiona had told to cover his arse.

Ian sank into his favourite booth at the far right of the diner. He unwrapped the soggy past-its-legal-sell-by-date sandwich that he had pilfered from the kitchen and gingerly took a bite of the moist, wilting bread. 

_Jesus, I hate this place._

Without anything to distract him, his mind wandered to the job offer procured for him by the boyfriend he was going to break up with. He couldn’t accept it, not if he was going to break up with Nate, but he wondered if that was the only thing stopping him. As much as he hated working at the diner, it was safe and familiar. It was boring work with no sense of urgency to speak of, but at the same time, it was easy and mostly stress free. The biggest problem with working at the diner was the boredom itself, but without the gnawing, relentless parade of Mickey related what-ifs that he used to ruminate upon, he wondered if maybe he’d be able to tolerate it more. 

There was also the fact that the very things he hated about the diner made it helpful in managing his bipolar disorder; routine, familiarity, lack of stressors. He’d been stable for a while now, only having to intercept one bout of depression before it claimed him, and that was a good thing. Stable was good. Routine was good. So yeah, he hated working at the diner but even if he could accept the offer, it wasn’t the right time for a major life change. A new job would be stressful and unpredictable. He’d have to learn a new set of skills and meet a new group of people and travel to and from work on the El everyday. Everything would be different. It would all be stress that had the potential to throw off the delicate balance inside his head. He couldn't risk it. He just wasn’t ready. 

“Hey sweetface,” Fiona greeted him, sliding into the booth with two mugs of coffee.

Ian sighed, as Fiona's words returned him to the reality of their workplace. “Hey, Fi,” he said, his voice tainted with a level of apathy that only the diner knew how to inspire in him.

“Havin’ a good day?” Fiona asked with exaggerated enthusiasm, her eyes wide. “Bet you’re glad to be back at work, yeah?”

Ian snorted and sipped at his coffee. It was an improvement upon the sandwich, at least. “Always,” he muttered.

Fiona lowered her voice and started complaining in exasperation about the kitchen staff. “It’s always the same on a fuckin’ weekend,” she muttered. “All they can think about is gettin’ off work and goin’ out. They need to get their heads back in the game.”

They groused casually about the rest of the diner staff before the conversation turned serious and Fiona made good on her promise that the pair of them were going to actually talk about something real. 

“What’s going on with you, huh?” she said, wrapping her fingers around the the hand Ian was using to clutch his coffee mug. “Let’s talk. Tell me something about Ian Gallagher. Anything, at all.”

Ian sighed and looked down at his sad, stale lunch. He paused briefly. When he opened his mouth to speak, the words that spilled out surprised even him. ”I.. I.. have to break up with my boyfriend.”

Fiona reeled at the unexpected reveal from her brother. She had imagined it being a lot harder to prize any actual information from him. “Oh,” she said, trying to conceal her shock. “He seems nice. What’s going on with you two?”

Ian ran a hand through his hair, as he wondered if he was going to regret opening this pandora’s box of conversation with his sister. “He _is_ nice,” he continued hesitantly, looking down at his hands, and turning his palms over to face him as though the answers could be found there. “He’s just -. We’re not… I don’t feel the same way about him as he does about me. I’ve tried to, but I just don’t.”

Fiona nodded, knowingly. Boys. This was a topic that was definitely in her wheelhouse. “Well, that’s okay,” she started, choosing her words carefully. “You get that sometimes. It doesn’t matter how nice someone is, if you don’t feel the same way, you can't force it. Believe me, I fuckin’ know.” 

Ian nodded in silent agreement, taking some small comfort in the fact Fiona seemed to know exactly what he was struggling with.

“Did somethin’ happen while you were there?”

He leaned back in the booth, resting his head against the back of the seat, looking up at the diner’s discoloured ceiling. “Not really,” he began, sighing deeply. “He wants me to.. to live with him and he’s got me a job down the corner from him, and I’m just not..-”

Ian paused, hoping he didn’t need to continue trying to explain, that Fiona would understand what he was trying to say and finish his sentence for him. When she didn’t, he continued reluctantly. “I like him, but he’s like.. really intense, and at first I thought it was the meds preventing me from feeling things with him, but I..”

Fiona could see her brother struggling to articulate the thoughts that were brewing in his head. “It’s okay,” she said, encouragingly. “You can tell me anything.” 

“He hasn’t done anything wrong, that's the worst part. But I’m.. I have feelings for-.”

“Mickey,” Fiona interrupted, shooting Ian a knowing look.

Ian cringed in embarrassment that he was still so utterly predictable despite keeping his cards close to his chest. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice cracking as his body stiffened with anxiety, waiting for the inevitable lecture on the perils of falling for a Milkovich.

Fiona drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. “I get it, you know,” she said as Ian’s gaze shot back to meet hers. “The Mickey thing. I get it.”

Ian looked at his sister in surprise and wondered briefly if he was actually dreaming. He laughed out loud nervously, suddenly unsure what Fiona was trying to say. “Do you have a crush, Fi?” he said, sarcastically.

Fiona groaned and rolled her eyes. “No, smartarse,” she groused. “When you were missin’, I went to see him and.. he really cares about you. He's loyal. I saw it. I know why you can’t walk away.”

Ian blinked in surprise and nodded his agreement, temporarily at a loss for words. He was amazed that his sister had broken ranks with Lip and had let herself see at least a sliver of the Mickey Milkovich that Ian knew. He was well aware that Fiona and Lip talked about him behind his back, so maybe Lip would eventually come around too. But as quickly as that hopeful thought had occurred to him, another voice inside Ian’s head told him it was wishful thinking. 

Fiona sipped noisily at her coffee, diffusing the silence that had fallen between them. “So..” she said, tentatively. “A Northside job, huh. That was nice of your boyfriend, I guess.”

Ian shrugged, trying to make light of it. “Just at a coffee shop. It's not a big deal.” He told Fiona all about the job offer and how he obviously couldn't break up with Nate and also accept it, even if he wanted to. And he was definitely breaking up with him, no question.

“I hate working here, but I'm not leaving anytime soon,” he added, absentmindedly.

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Oh, well.. sorry I lied my arse off to everyone and saved this job for ya,” she said throwing her hands up in faux annoyance. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean..-” Ian stammered, cringing internally and trying to take back his words. “Thanks for covering my arse, Fi. I’m sorry you had to.”

“You don’t have to work here, ya know,” she said, gesturing at the space around them. 

“What else am I gonna do, really?”

“Whatever you want,” she grinned.

Ian stared into his coffee, unable to find that advice very helpful. “I just.. everything.. everything derailed,” he muttered, more to himself than to Fiona.

“I know, sweetface,” she acquiesced. “Nothin’ turned out like you had planned. But even the plan you did have - the army - you decided you wanted it and you quite literally let nothing stop you.”

“Except for mental illness.”

Fiona shot Ian a conciliatory smile. “Once you set your mind to something, though-.”

“It's all too much,” Ian interrupted. “There’s just.. there's too much to consider. I can't just.. make big changes..”

“You just need to find your thing, Ian,” Fiona said pointedly. “Once you find it, you’ll go for it with everything ya got. Because you’re smart and determined and stubborn.” 

Ian felt his cheeks warming at the compliments from his sister. “My thing,” he repeated, letting the words sink in. The hard part was working out what this _thing_ was. 

Fiona nodded.

“The army was my thing. I never thought about any other thing,” he shook his head, trying to to remember ever having a plan B for anything in his life. He had always gone careening towards his plan A, whatever it was, fuck the consequences.

“Well, now you can,” Fiona smiled. “You’re young and you have a job already. You don’t need to rush into anything, just start thinkin’ about what you’d really like to do with yourself.”

Ian sighed, considering Fiona’s advice. “I like helping people, I guess,” he offered, shrugging. “I like feeling useful.”

“You do.” Fiona agreed with a smile and a nod. “Start there.”

He looked down at his coffee, a fresh wave of guilt rising in his stomach when he thought about the added stress he’d caused Fiona by disappearing. Yet here she was, still selflessly worried about his future. 

“What’s your thing, Fi?” he mused.

Fiona smiled and Ian thought he noticed her eyes start to glass over briefly. “My thing is you guys,” she said steadily. “Our dysfunctional family. Keeping us all afloat and out of trouble for the most part. That’s my thing.”

Ian knew that raising her five siblings wouldn’t have been Fiona’s original plan. He vainly hoped there was a parallel universe somewhere, where the Galllaghers were normal and Fiona had been able to finish school and work out what her _thing_ was, without the looming threat of kids and bills and arrests and shitty fucking parents.

“We don’t tell you enough, but we appreciate everything you do for us,” Ian said solemnly.

Fiona smiled and then snorted a laugh, lightening the mood. “Well, just show your appreciation by not runnin’ off again, alright?”

“Okay. Pinky promise,” Ian said, linking his pinky finger with his sister’s, like they used to do when they were kids.

Fiona smirked and shook her head. “Alright, break’s over. Back to work, Gallagher,” she said, all business, snapping back into assistant manager mode.

Ian quickly gulped down the rest of his coffee and steeled himself to complete the remainder of his shift.

* * *

Ian laid awake around two in the morning, thinking about how he was going to break up with Nate. A mental cavalcade of conversations and scenarios were playing out in his head, and the brief fitful sleep he had managed to fall into was plagued with dreams of arguments and break ups, like a macabre and sad, psychological pantomime he had no control over.

Breaking up with Mickey was the worst thing Ian had ever done and he knew that their break up should only be used as a cautionary tale. But every other relationship he’d had, had ended with some spectacularly dramatic implosion, so Ian had almost no idea how to have _the conversation._ It’s not like he could really ask Fiona or Lip for advice; Fiona would undoubtedly tell Ian to be honest and Lip would only embark on an anti-Mickey rant. Besides, both his older siblings pretty much exclusively ended their own relationships with spectacular acts of self-sabotage; a Gallagher habit that Ian was trying to break. 

The thought of just ignoring Nate for the rest of his life was tempting, but Ian knew his boyfriend, and Mickey, deserved better than that. He should just be honest and tell Nate that he had feelings for someone else. But Ian wondered if that was cold comfort - he would feel better for being honest, but would Nate feel better or worse knowing that there was someone else? Ian shuddered at the idea of setting up a meeting with someone, knowing it would only end in heartache and hurt feelings, especially when his boyfriend was guilty of nothing other than liking Ian more than he could reciprocate. 

He palmed at his face and groaned loudly in the dark, Liam and Carl stirring slightly in their beds. Ian briefly entertained the thought of texting Mickey, as if sending a midnight text message out into the ether would somehow quell the feelings of loneliness and uncertainty that were starting to overtake his tired and vulnerable, wee hours brain. He reached out and grabbed his phone from beside the bed and started tapping out a message, but quickly decided against it, throwing his phone back in its place, in frustration. He’d leave Mickey alone until he’d broken up with his boyfriend.

* * *

Mickey couldn't sleep. He was restless, infuriated by how fucking big and empty his bed was, stretching out beside him like a vast and uninhabited land mass. Funny, how he had never noticed it before. As hard as he tried, he couldn't stop thinking about Ian. When he did fall asleep briefly, he dreamed Ian was sleeping next to him. Mickey woke with a start when he realised Ian wasn't there, the pleasant tendrils of his dream retreating, being replaced by waves of reluctant disappointment. Christ, he was fucking gay.

Mickey missed Ian in an entirely new way now, instead of the painful, grief-infused manner he had back when he'd first gotten out of the can. Back then, the thought of being powerless to end the constant, tortured sadness that Ian’s absence inspired in him had almost driven Mickey insane. Now he missed him in a way that was equal parts enjoyable and frustrating all at once. The very idea that he could text Ian and invite him over for another sleepover or whatever the fuck the previous night had been, was heady and amazing. But it was almost too much to bear because he knew it was too fucking late at night now to invite him around under the guise of anything other than what it was; some weird platonic-cuddling booty call.

Mickey figured he’d said more words to Ian that night than he had to anyone in the last eighteen months in total. It felt like they were getting to know each other all over again. Sure, Mickey knew he was fucking gay; he’d long since accepted that he liked dicks and arseholes and dicks in arseholes, and kissing and yes, even fucking cuddling. But the closeness that he and Ian had shared, without even fucking, was something else. Something that he hadn’t even known had been missing from his life. But it was also fucking terrifying in a way. Like giving someone all the tools they needed to destroy you and trusting that they wouldn't. Or hoping, in this case. He wasn't quite at the stage of trusting Ian again yet. That's why he was determined that they were staying friends for now, before Mickey jumped over that cliff completely. Because he knew that once he jumped over that cliff with Ian there would be no going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next... The break up.. Dun dun dunnn
> 
> Hit me up on Tumblr, where I have no idea what I'm doing http://radiatingsuburbanangst.tumblr.com/


	11. The End is the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey bit down on his bottom lip, grabbing at Ian’s wrists, their arms stalemated in a lock. “Such a fuckin’ smartarse,” Mickey muttered in between fits of laughter. He maneuvered his hands from Ian’s wrists, locking their fingers together, using his weight to push against Ian’s arms, trying to subdue him. In one swift motion, Mickey shifted his body, straddling Ian, his legs either side of Ian’s hips and his arms pinning Ian’s own arms either side of his head, against the back of the couch.

Mickey arrived at the delivery depot, ready to pick up the manifest for the truck he'd be driving around all day for work. It was an exceptionally warm day in Chicago, even for summer, already hot as fucking balls at eight in the morning. He groaned, thinking about how stifling those delivery vans got when the sun was beating down on them all day. For the most part, he kinda liked his job, but when he was given a van without air conditioning on a hot arse day, he always wished he was literally _anywhere_ else. If he was lucky, he'd be allocated one of the new vans with air conditioning. If not, he’d be sweating like a bitch all day. Since Milkoviches rarely experienced any good luck, he felt pretty confident he’d be spending the day bathing in a pool of his own sweat.

He stepped into the reception area and relief washed over him as an icy blanket of cool air tempered his skin. The door to the loading zone opened and Tom, the office administrator walked through.

“Hey, Mickey,” Tom greeted him, always cheerful, despite the fact Mickey usually addressed him with grunts and had barely conversed with him since he'd been working there. 

“Yo,” Mickey replied. “Fuckin’ hot out there.” He almost rolled his eyes at himself. He hated small talk and he wasn’t good at it.

“Wouldn’t know,” Tom grinned. “It’s always lovely in the office.”

Mickey smirked. “Do I get some some air conditioned comfort today too, or am I shit outta luck?” 

Tom hummed thoughtfully, leaning towards his computer. “You're the third driver in.. the system has allocated you one of the old vans,” he said, screwing up his nose. 

“Fucksake,” Mickey groused, then accepted his fate with a shrug. “Guess I’ll live.”

“Lemme see what I can do,” Tom said, typing and clicking at his station. “I can manually override the allocation.. Okay, I've got you driving the new Mercedes. It's a nice one.”

Mickey laughed in surprise. “Really? Fuck. Thanks, man,” he said, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Probably about the only fucking time I'll drive a Merc, ay.”

Tom smiled. “Perks of the job, yeah?”

“That, and the sheer fuckin’ joy of unloading a clown car’s worth of flat pack furniture everyday,” Mickey replied. He didn't know what the fuck had gotten into him this morning. He felt uncharacteristically chipper. Talkative, even. 

“Just think of all the bored, desperate housewives whose day you’re making,” Tom said blithely, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Mickey sucked on his bottom lip, biting down and looking away in embarrassment. Fuck, if he was ever hit on by any of the women who accepted his deliveries, he was pretty sure he’d quit on the spot.

Tom seemed to notice Mickey's discomfort and quickly tried to backtrack. “Sorry, Mickey. You never usually say much to me, but you really have an air about you this morning,” he babbled. “You must’ve had a good weekend.”

Mickey shrugged, unsure how to respond to Tom’s observations. “Yeah,” he said quietly, as he remembered waking up next to Ian on Saturday morning. “Guess my weekend was above average.” 

“Good to hear it,” Tom said with a smile and Mickey wondered how someone could be so fucking affable all the damn time. “I hope your week is even better.” 

Mickey resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the cheesiness of the conversation, as Tom threw him the keys for the Mercedes over the desk.

“Make sure you treat her nice,” Tom said with exaggerated concern. “She's only got two hundred miles on the clock.”

“Fuck that, man,” Mickey laughed. “I'll fuckin’ drive her like she's stolen.”

Tom shot Mickey a concerned look.

“Relax. I'm fuckin’ kidding.” Mickey rolled his eyes. “I'll treat her like she's my own.” He laughed quietly. That didn't exactly ensure the safety of the truck either, but it placated Tom all the same. 

“You’re funny, Mickey Milkovich,” Tom said with a smile, as Mickey made his way toward the door to the loading zone. “You should try talking every morning.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey grumbled as he left the office. 

Mickey put his key in the ignition of the Mercedes van, pausing before turning it to start the engine. He thought about what Tom had said to him, that he had an air about him this morning. The truth was, he fucking felt different too. Slightly less irritable than usual. It was because of Ian, and the fact that Mickey had given up pretending he didn’t feel anything for him. Self-denial had a tendency to be fucking tiring.

He really wanted to hang out with Ian again, like they had the other night. And if they ended up talking and cuddling in bed again, well so fucking be it; Mickey sure as hell wasn’t going to argue. Back in the day, when they’d been fucking in secret all over the Southside, he’d text Ian a location and the redhead would dutifully show up. But he wasn’t sure how to initiate hanging out with Ian now. It was no secret they both wanted to get back together, but Mickey still didn’t want to look like an eager little bitch and he didn’t want things to move too quickly. He certainly didn’t want to look like he was just inviting Ian over to fucking cuddle in bed. 

Mickey shook his head, silently berating himself for feeling like an insecure fucking schoolgirl, when he suddenly realised how goddamn convenient it was that his sister and his _whatever the fuck Ian was_ , were best friends. He’d just leave it up to Mandy, for now. It was only a matter of time before Ian showed up to hang with Mandy, and Mickey would just happen to join them. Super casual and shit. It sounded like a plan.

* * *

Ian stopped around the corner from the bar where he was about to meet Nate. They had both been to the place before, so Ian knew it was low-key and kinda divey with secluded areas where they would be able to talk. Ian was nervous. He just needed a minute to steel himself, to rehash what he was planning to say. He took a few deep breaths to try and calm himself down. 

A voice inside his head was telling him he could still turn around and go back home and he had to admit it was a tempting thought, but he was tired of running. He wanted to at least try to do the right thing. And he really was trying; he had even googled how to break up with someone, reading article after article about the best way to end a relationship. They had all recommended being honest, which scared him. He had always been the kind of person who preferred to keep his truths to himself, and if he thought he could get away with keeping one secret, he would keep ten, instead.

He felt ill at the prospect of hurting Nate, because he did care about him. This thought was immediately accompanied by a tidal wave of guilt, because he had never afforded Mickey the same consideration, and he felt disgusted with himself for how badly he’d treated him when he’d broken up with him. He hated himself all over again for the way he’d just walked away, seemingly uncaring and unaffected by it all at the time. 

Ian felt himself spiralling; one unpleasant thought leading to another over and over, as he leaned against a cold, brick wall. He really needed to get it together. He looked up at the stars, trying desperately to feel the same comfort that Mickey apparently felt staring into the dark, infinite space. After a few minutes spent trying to identify constellations, he felt like he might actually be able to have this dreaded conversation with Nate, after all. 

Nate was already seated and had ordered drinks when Ian walked up to the secluded table in the back corner of the bar. 

“Hey, Ian,” Nate said cheerfully, as Ian pulled up a chair and sat down across the table from him. “I’ve missed you.”

Ian felt his stomach drop in reaction to his boyfriend’s enthusiasm. “Hey,” he replied tentatively.

“I've got a gin and tonic, but I got you a light beer,” Nate grinned, pushing the bottle towards Ian’s side of the table.

Ian looked down at the bottle in front of him. “Thanks,” he replied, quietly, Nate’s relentless assault of optimism filling him with guilt.

“This is different, meeting here,” Nate continued, pleasantly. “You usually just come over to my place.”

Ian opened his mouth to speak, to begin the speech he had been mentally preparing, but Nate cut him off before his words were able to be formed. 

“Have you given any thought to what we talked about?” Nate asked, taking a sip of his drink. “You know, moving in?”

Ian looked up at Nate and nodded. May as well get straight to the point. “That's why I wanted to see you.”

“What did you decide?”

Ian took a deep breath and prepared himself to start the conversation he'd been rehearsing in his head over the last few days. “You've really helped me a lot over the last few months.”

Nate shrugged, like it was no big deal. “I care about you.” He reached over, wrapping his fingers around Ian's hand as he clutched his beer bottle. Ian avoided his touch under the guise of bringing the bottle to his lips.

“When I met you, I was in a really weird place,” Ian continued, desperately trying not to sound like he was reading from a script. “You've been amazing, you really have-.”

“I’ve _been_ amazing,” Nate interrupted. He paused, seemingly putting the pieces together. Ian felt his heart pounding in his ears as he watched Nate’s facial expression changing. He could practically see the light going on inside his head. 

“Yeah.. um-.”

“You invited me here to break up with me,” Nate interrupted him, his words spoken pointedly and without emotion.

Ian shuddered, the hairs on his body standing on end. This entire scene was becoming eerily familiar. He thought of Mickey standing on the street outside his house as Ian ripped his heart to shreds. The only real difference now were the Northside surroundings.

“I'm sorry,” Ian said, impotently. That word. He was so fucking sick and tired of that useless word.

Nate sighed, looking confused. “I thought things were going well with us,” he said in disbelief. “I mean.. why?”

“I just.. I don't think we're-,” Ian stammered, unable to finish his sentence before he was interrupted again. He really wished Nate would just let him finish talking, even if he was ineloquent and awkward.

“Is it because I pushed you too hard?” Nate asked. “You don’t have to move in if you don’t want to.”

“No it's not that-.”

Nate leaned towards Ian, putting a hand on his leg, rubbing his thigh suggestively. “Hey, let’s go back to my place and sort this out,” he murmured. “This is.. this is just a hiccup.”

Ian shifted in his seat, desperate to move his leg from Nate's reach. He stared down at the table in front of him, fixating on the wood grain as he imagined his plans to _just be honest_ , slowly catching alight, going up in flames. He really had intended to tell Nate the truth, but he was having trouble forcing the words from his mouth and it didn’t help that he was constantly interrupted. 

Ian swallowed slowly, his mouth suddenly dry. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “I.. I still have a lot of feelings for Mickey. I mean, my ex,” he said quietly. “And I want to.. I need to see where it goes. I'm so sorry.”

“Your ex?” Nate repeated, raising his eyebrows, his voice thick with contempt. “The _criminal_?”

Ian felt his anger rising in his stomach, like bile. He was so sick of hearing Nate talk that way about Mickey. “He's not,-” he paused. Well, technically, Mickey _was_ a criminal, but Ian was not going to describe him that way. “The one who was in prison, yes.” 

“So you've been seeing him behind my back?”

Ian shook his head. He took a few seconds, deciding how to explain what had been going on between him and Mickey. He hadn’t physically cheated, but there was definitely a case to be had for emotional cheating. “I've been thinking about him a lot and we talked, but that was it.”

Nate was silent. He looked up at the ceiling briefly, shaking his head slowly as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Looking back down at his drink, he rubbed at his forehead.

“I have seen him, because he's my best friend’s brother. But we haven't fucked, or anything,” Ian said, in a futile attempt to soften the impact of the truth.

Nate’s lips curled in a sneer. “You haven’t fucked or anything,” he repeated, robotically. He looked at Ian directly in the eyes, his gaze piercing. “You can do so much better, Ian. You deserve better than someone like that.”

Ian took a deep breath and exhaled a slow sigh, deciding to ignore that little dig. He could feel tears prickling behind his eyes and he briefly wondered why he was the one on the verge of crying. “There's a lot of history between me and Mickey,” he offered, “and I.. I can't just let him go. I'm sorry.”

Nate picked up his drink and downed the remainder in one large gulp. He ran his index finger around the rim of the glass, seemingly lost in thought. “What was he in prison for?” He eventually asked. 

Ian recoiled, startled by the sudden change of subject. “He punched a cop,” he admitted, caught off guard, feeling guilty for airing Mickey’s business to someone who was a stranger to him.

“So, he's violent,” Nate said with disdain, shaking his head slowly. He folded his arms across his chest, defensively.

“He doesn't go around beating random people or anything.”

“Just cops,” Nate scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Ian shook his head. “No. That was because of me,” he shot back, without thinking. He just wanted to defend Mickey. 

“What?”

Ian sighed. “Look, I broke up with him. It messed him up and he got himself locked up so he didn't have to see me.”

Nate huffed a humourless laugh. “So, he fucked his life up for you,” he said in disbelief. “Is that romantic to you, Ian? Do you feel you owe him, or something?“

Ian closed his eyes and shook his head. “This isn’t Mickey’s fault,” Ian said coldly. He had no idea where this conversation was going or why it had turned into an attack on Mickey’s character, but he wanted it to end. How dare Nate sit there and attack Mickey. He'd never even met him.

“He's the one who is married with a kid?” Nate continued.

Ian nodded, silently grinding his teeth in frustration. It seemed to Ian that Nate was more offended that he was choosing someone Nate considered to be less than him, than upset Ian was leaving at all. Ian felt himself shutting down, too angry and confused to muster anything other than gestures or one word responses.

“He won't leave his wife, Ian. They never do.”

“It's not-,” Ian started to come to Mickey’s defence again, but stopped, realising it was a lost cause. “Why are we even talking about this?”

Nate shrugged, petulantly. “Just trying to understand it. I've never been dumped for a violent ex-con with a wife and child before.”

“What do you expect me to say to that?” Ian muttered, struggling to remember what he ever saw in this guy. 

“I just.. I can't believe.. I imagined us together for a long time, Ian. Fuck,” Nate said with a sigh.

“I'm sorry I've hurt you.”

Nate raised his eyebrow and seemed stared straight through Ian as he attempted to decipher Nate’s emotions. Ian had imagined Nate would be upset, but he only seemed angry. And he didn’t even seem angry at Ian, he seemed to be directing all his anger towards Mickey.

“I know I can't make you stay,” Nate said finally, “but watching you leave me for someone like that.. I don't get it. I'm worried about you, Ian. Aside from the fact you're leaving me, I don’t feel good about this. I’m scared for you.” 

Ian was silent. Every ounce of him wanted to stand up for Mickey but he knew it wouldn’t help the situation. Nate was lashing out, and hearing Ian sing Mickey’s praises wasn’t going to make him feel any better. He wasn’t sure if he should stay and make sure that Nate was okay, or if he should just leave. He wanted to leave.

“Well, I brought these back,” Ian said after a few minutes of deliberation, pushing the cafe employment forms across the table to Nate. “Since we're not..”

Nate shook his head and his expression seemed to soften slightly. He pushed the papers back to Ian. “I wanted you to have that job because I care about you. It wasn't payment for being with me,” he said. 

“But, I-,” Ian's words caught in his throat.

“I still care about you. I don't think you hooking up with your violent ex-boyfriend is good for you, but I'm not going to destroy an opportunity because of it,” Nate shrugged. “So go hand the forms in and leave that shitty diner. Do something good for yourself.”

 _Do something good for yourself._ Ian was so angry, he almost laughed. Instead, he felt his face react in a strange mixture of surprise and disgust. 

“I really am sorry. I never meant to hurt you,” Ian said lamely as he stood up uncomfortably, suddenly unsure what to do with his body. Nate looked away and remained silent and Ian turned around and left.

* * *

When Ian returned home from the bar, he crept up the back stairs and into his room, silently avoiding the rest of his family. He needed to be by himself for a while, and for the first time in almost as long as he could remember he didn’t even feel like seeing Mickey. He toed off his shoes and stripped down to his boxers, walking quietly into the bathroom to take his nighttime meds. The conversation with Nate was on an endless loop inside his head, all the nasty remarks made about Mickey stabbing him over and over, like a blunt knife to his heart. He wondered whether that clusterfuck of a conversation was normal, as far as break ups went. He didn't really know what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't _that_.

Ian was an absolute mess of emotion, what was left of his feelings for Nate vacillating pointlessly between anger and bitter sadness. Mickey was the very last person to blame for any of this, but somehow Ian had avoided Nate’s wrath, while Mickey had ended up the unwitting subject of a stranger’s character assassination. Ian could understand Nate being upset, but fuck, Nate didn’t even know Mickey - he had no right to say those things. Nate’s reaction just confirmed to Ian what he already knew; they definitely didn’t belong together. 

He palmed at his eyes, trying to stave off the tears that were taunting him behind his eyes, and climbed into bed, waiting patiently for his pills to bless him with their predictable gift of sleep. 

* * *

“So, he got you a job, you broke up with him and he _still_ wants you to have the job?” Mandy said in disbelief, as she placed Yevgeny in his sand pit and handed the toddler a bucket and spade.

“Yeah. But it was really awkward and weird, Mands,” Ian said with an uncomfortable shiver. He stretched his legs out on the steps of the Milkovich back porch. “I was just glad to get out of there in the end.”

Mandy snorted. “I don't know what you do to these guys, Ian. They end up fucking wrapped around your little finger. Fucking dickmatized or some shit.”

Dickmatized. Ian couldn't help but giggle at Mandy's choice of words, even if he didn't agree with her. “I don't do anything,” he rebuffed, shaking his head. “I don't even know what you're talking about.” 

Mandy shot him a withering look. “This guy and my fucking brother, too.”

Ian leaned forward suddenly, his interest piqued at the mention of Mickey. “What?” He asked. “What about Mickey?”

“When you went walkabout the other week,” Mandy explained, her voice laced with annoyance. “Mickey was a fucking wreck. He was wasted for two days and angry as fuck, but he'd still do anything for you. I hate seeing him messed up like that, Ian.”

Ian wrapped his arms around his middle, trying to make himself smaller. Mickey was the strongest person Ian knew; he felt sick hearing about him like that, especially when Ian knew he was the cause. 

“Yeah okay, I get it,” he muttered. “I'm a piece of shit.” It was the first time he’d hung out with Mandy since he’d returned home and Mandy’s demeanour towards him was salty, to say the least.

“You know I just want you two arseholes to be happy,” she said, helping Yevgeny pat sand into his bucket. “I'm not taking sides, here.”

Ian shrugged. Almost everything she had said to him since he'd come over had been a scolding. “We're sorting our shit out, Mands,” Ian offered. “We know how we both feel at the same time.. for like, the first time, ever.”

Mandy smiled deviously, her theory of what had been going on in Mickey’s room last week confirmed. “So that _was_ talk therapy that I heard the other night?” she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes and pointing an accusatory finger in Ian’s direction.

Ian nodded, absentmindedly picking at a hole in his jeans. 

“Well, I'll be damned,” she muttered, more to herself than to Ian. “D’you think you’re gonna get back together, then?”

Ian sighed, still not knowing the answer to that question. But with Mickey back in his life, it was becoming easier to deal with the uncertainty. “I hope so. We’re working on it.”

Mandy met Ian’s gaze, holding it for a few seconds longer than was comfortable. She smiled, throwing a handful of sand in his direction and Ian could tell they had reached a silent, unspoken truce.

“Let me tell you what's new with me, then,” Mandy drawled, then added sarcastically, “thanks for asking, by the way.”

Ian grinned sheepishly at his best friend. “So, Mandy, what’s new with you?” he said with exaggerated interest.

“Well,” Mandy began, making sure Yev was safely entertained as she shifted on the grass to face Ian. “I went to Malcolm X on the weekend. Decided I’m gonna get my GED. Got all the brochures and shit and Mickey reckons it’s actually not that hard. Then I might look at some community college classes.”

“That’s so cool, Mands. You're so fucking smart.” 

Mandy scoffed, like a true Milkovich, unsure what to do with Ian’s compliment. “Well, anyway. I thought maybe you might wanna go for yours too?” she asked, nervously. “We could study together. Help each other, like we used to.”

Ian frowned, feeling his face screw up in consideration. 

She noticed Ian’s apprehension and tried her best to sweeten the deal, figuring the way to win him over was through Mickey. “You never know, Ian,” she said blithely, with a suggestive wiggle of her brows, “we could study and you could sneak off for extended toilet breaks whenever Mickey gets home. Just like old times.”

Ian managed a quiet giggle and a half-smile thinking about that time, when he and Mandy used to study together. The memories brought a smile to his lips but they felt abstract and impersonal, as though they had happened to somebody else. 

Mandy sighed, remembering how obsessively Ian used to study during his shifts at the Kash and Grab. His hesitation didn't make sense to her. “There's no reason you couldn't get yours too, Ian,” she said, with a casual shrug. “You're way smarter than me and I feel pretty confident.”

Ian looked down at his feet. “Maybe,” he said quietly. 

Mandy eyed him suspiciously and shrugged. “Well think about it, anyway. There's heaps of stuff to do at Malcolm X but you need a GED for most of it. I got you copies of the brochures and all that crap.”

“Thanks, Mands.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, both of them watching as Yevgeny entertained himself in his sand pit, cooing and making cute little baby noises that only he understood.

“I never actually hated school,” Mandy said thoughtfully, as though this realisation had just occurred to her. “I just hated all the fucking bitches and arseholes who went there.”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed, vaguely. “I know what you mean.” Ian hadn't hated school, either. Fuck, he had even enrolled in summer school that time. It hadn't been hard to get into the habit of studying when he'd had a goal, when he thought he was going to go to West Point. But it was almost impossible to imagine himself studying for his GED just so he could cherry pick at some community college classes with no end game, no idea where he wanted to end up. Ian wasn't the type of person who could study a few things here and there, while trying to decide what interested him; that would only cause him constant worry. He needed that plan A.

His mind wandered, mulling over what might have happened if he'd stayed and graduated instead of enlisting. Bipolar disorder would have still caught up with him, but would he have finished school? Would he be in college right now instead of working at the diner? Maybe Mickey wouldn't have ended up in prison because of him. _Fuck_. The what ifs were endless. Ian swallowed the thick lump forming in his throat.

Mandy gasped suddenly, slapping her hand on her knee. “Oh my god!” She exclaimed. “I fucking forgot to tell you this!”

Ian blinked, Mandy's excited outburst tearing him from the quicksand of rumination inside his head. He watched as she giggled at whatever it was she had to tell him. “Well, don’t keep me hanging, Mands.”

“You remember Mr. Bancroft, right?” she asked, referring to their old history teacher. 

Ian pulled a disgusted face and nodded. 

“I fucking saw that douchebag on the El the other day. Still couldn’t stop checking me out. It was fucking gross.”

“Once a fucking old perve, always a fucking old perve,” he groused, and the pair of them burst out laughing. 

* * *

The front door of the Milkovich house slammed shut, interrupting Ian and Mandy from their reminiscing about high school and the teachers they couldn’t stand, the annoying students and Mandy’s exhaustive list of all the bitches and douchebags that had pissed her off and why.

“Yo!” Mickey’s voice reverberated through the house from the living room and Ian felt his face erupt in an uncontrollable grin. He looked down at his feet, trying to temper his excited smile, so wide it was starting to hurt his cheeks.

“Hey, arseface,” Mandy called out as she bundled Yevgeny in her arms. “How was work?”

Mickey grunted in response as he made his way out to the back steps and sat down next to Ian, their legs pressed together as they both tried to fit between the narrow width of the porch step. 

“Hey Mick,” Ian said blithely, attempting to mask his enthusiasm, trying to play it cool. He definitely wasn't thinking about the warm pressure where their bodies met.

“Sup losers.” 

Mandy plopped Yevgeny down in Mickey’s lap. “Here. It’s your turn to be a fucking parent,” she muttered, her maternal instincts having run their course for the day. “I’m going to cook dinner.” She stepped over the three of them and made her way into the kitchen, leaving Ian and Mickey alone.

Mickey placed a kiss on Yevgeny’s head. “Hey little man, daddy's home,” he said affectionately. 

Ian grinned again at their exchange and let out a shaky breath, his heart almost bursting in his chest. “He’s getting big, Mick.”

Mickey laughed. “I know, ay. He’s like an actual tiny person now,” he bounced Yev on his lap, as the toddler grabbed at Mickey’s ear lobes. “How's things at home? With Monica and shit?”

“Dunno, I haven't seen her,” Ian shrugged. He was silently grateful that he’d so far managed to avoid her. “She’s still squatting with us but I've been working a lot and we haven’t been home at the same time.” 

“If she gives you any grief, you come here, aight?” Mickey said, bossily.

Ian nodded.

Mickey turned his attention back to his son. “Hey, Yevvy,” he said. “This is Ian. Do you remember Ian? He's daddy's friend.”

“Een,” Yevgeny repeated. “Eeeeeen.”

“Oh my god,” Ian breathed. “He is so fucking cute.” 

“He fuckin’ is, aint he?” Mickey said, sounding astonished even to himself.

Ian eyed Mickey nervously, and decided to take a chance. “So, um.. I broke up with my boyfriend the other day.” Ian continued to watched Mickey’s face, trying to gauge his reaction to the news that he’d dumped Nate, but his expression was unreadable. 

Mickey laughed derisively. “Nate dog or whatever the fuck his name was?” As if he had ever been able to forget that fucking stupid name. “How’d that go?”

Ian laughed guiltily at the utter disdain in Mickey’s voice. “Well, I'm single, so.. successfully, I guess?” 

“Single,” Mickey repeated. He thought of all the things Lip had said to him back at The Alibi that time and felt fucking victorious.

“Single and ready to mingle,” Ian mused.

Mickey snorted. “You're an idiot.” He nudged Ian in the ribs, laughing at his ridiculous comment. 

Their conversation was cut short when Mandy yelled ungraciously from the kitchen. “Hey, Ian! You staying for dinner? I'm cooking a fucking Ukrainian sausage casserole thing.”

Ian glanced quickly at Mickey, waiting for his approval, not wanting to crash their dinner if Mickey didn’t want him around. 

“You'll wanna get in on this shit, man,” Mickey said with a nod. “It’s fuckin’ tasty.”

Ian yelled his acceptance back at Mandy, privately thrilled at the prospect of staying for dinner. It reminded him of when they all used to live there, when they’d all been happy together. For a few months, at least. Himself, Mickey, Mandy, Yevgeny and Svetlana. _Fuck. Svetlana._ Ian shuddered. He hadn’t seen her since before he’d taken Yevgeny. She probably wanted Ian's head.

“What about Svetlana, Mick?”

Mickey shook his head knowing Ian had nothing to worry about. She'd been pissed back then, sure, but although Svetlana’s scorn burned bright, it was usually short lived. Hell, Svetlana had been in Mickey's ear constantly about getting back with Ian since he'd gotten out of the can. “She knows it weren't your fault, man,” Mickey said, giving Ian's shoulder a friendly squeeze. “She'll be cool. She always fuckin’ liked you more than me. You know that.”

Ian sighed and laughed nervously, hoping that Mickey was right. 

“This one needs dinner, bath and bed,” Mickey said, standing up and hitching Yev upon his hip. He looked down at Ian, still seated on the step. “Wanna watch a movie later?”

Ian hummed his agreement. “Yep.”

“You bring your meds? The night ones?”

“Yeah,” Ian’s voice cracked as he let the subtext of Mickey’s question sink in. It was another sleepover. “I came straight from work, there’s some in my backpack.”

“Sweet.”

* * *

Mickey had been right about Mandy’s casserole. And also about Svetlana. 

“Orange Boy, my idiot husband tells me you not so crazy anymore?” she had said, following up with some obligatory cursing in Russian.

Ian had to smile, because he knew her well enough to know this was just bluster. She had seemed genuinely happy to see him, and even offered to avail him of his services as a free babysitter. To say Ian was relieved about this would be an understatement.

Sitting around the table with Mickey, Mandy and Svetlana, Ian felt like everything was right with the world again. All the pieces that had fallen and been temporarily lost, had found their way back together, slotting comfortably back into their correct places, almost as if they’d never left. 

After dinner, Mickey and Ian watched the latest Avengers movie which Mickey had missed while he’d been in prison. They sat on the couch drinking beer, feet on the coffee table, leaning against each other, talking shit.

“Movies, man,” Mickey said, crushing an empty beer can in his hands. “Missed bein’ able to watch whatever I want, ay.” 

“They don’t show movies in prison?” Ian asked.

Mickey grumbled, resting his head on the back of the couch. “Only so many times you can watch fuckin’ Con Air and Shawshank Redemption.”

Ian laughed, genuinely amused by the predictability of the movie choices. “They keep showing those?”

“Due to popular fuckin’ demand.”

“Holy shit,” Ian giggled in disbelief. “What a cliche.”

“Fuckin’ tell me about it,” Mickey groaned, bringing another beer to his lips. “And you gotta listen on fuckin’ headphones. Just ain't the same watching movies in the big house.”

Ian laughed quietly. “Well, I guess that's kinda the point of prison, Mick,” he said sarcastically, nudging their shoulders together. “Depriving you of the comforts of home.”

“I fuckin’ know that, smart guy,” Mickey drawled irritably, reaching a hand over to muss up Ian’s hair. He shrugged. “Preferred to fuckin’ read, anyways.”

Ian huffed in interest, trying to hide his surprise at this little tidbit that Mickey had just casually thrown out there. This was brand new information.

“Took your advice when I got out of juvie, ay,” Mickey added, sensing Ian’s surprise and offering an explanation. It’s not like he never knew how to read. He’d just never had the fuckin’ time while living life as a career criminal.

“What have you been reading?”

“Started workin’ my way down the high school reading list,” Mickey said with a cynical laugh. “Last one I read was Tequila Mockingbird.”

Ian leaned forward, looking Mickey in the eyes, eyebrows raised. “Did you say Tequila Mockingbird?

“Yeah, what of it?”

“It's To. Kill. A. Mockingbird,” Ian said teasingly, grinning wildly and enunciating each word with exaggerated clarity.

Mickey shook his head, wondering if Ian was making one of his puns or some shit. “That's what I fuckin’ said, smartarse. Tequila Mockingbird.”

Ian giggled. “I think you said Tequila, Mick,” he teased, taking the opportunity to tickle Mickey on his ribcage. 

Mickey let out a chortled, high pitched laugh and flailed his upper body awkwardly, trying desperately to shield his ribs and underarms from Ian’s stealthy, tickling fingers.

“Tequila!” Ian cried out, as he darted over towards Mickey, prodding at his ribs on the far side of his body. “Tequila!”

Mickey bit down on his bottom lip, grabbing at Ian’s wrists, their arms stalemated in a lock. “Such a fuckin’ smartarse,” Mickey muttered in between fits of laughter. He maneuvered his hands from Ian’s wrists, locking their fingers together, using his weight to push against Ian’s arms, trying to subdue him. In one swift motion, Mickey shifted his body, straddling Ian, his legs either side of Ian’s hips and his arms pinning Ian’s own arms either side of his head, against the back of the couch.

Ian felt his erection growing between Mickey's legs. They were face to face, so close that they could feel their short panting breath on one another’s faces. Ian knew that if Mickey didn’t move within the next twenty seconds, he was going to lean up and kiss him and he wasn’t going to stop.

“Need I fuckin’ remind you,” Mickey growled huskily, feigning anger, “out of the two of us, I'm the only one who passed fuckin’ high school.” His eyes hadn't left Ian's and he wondered what the fuck he was doing. He’d ended up on top of Ian without even thinking, like some muscle memory reflex shit he’d forgotten about. Mickey vainly wondered if he should just give into the temptation he knew they were both feeling. But things were going so well between them, he didn’t want to complicate shit. He’d been without Ian in his life whatsoever for so long, that he was happy with what they had, for now. He wanted more, he just wasn’t ready for it yet.

“Mick,” Ian exhaled shakily, unable to form full sentences, his mind consumed with their bodies pressed together and Mickey’s rasping breath against his lips. Ian knew he should probably use his momentum to throw Mickey off his lap, but he couldn’t find it within himself to move.

Mickey leaned down and quickly bumped the ends of their noses together like eskimos. Then as quickly as it had happened, he rolled off Ian, back to his side of the couch. He stretched his arms out, cracking his elbows like nothing had happened.

Ian swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, trying to get his breathing back to a normal rhythm. He was suddenly consumed by a strange wave of relief and disappointment. 

They exchanged sheepish glances at one another, their lips curling into knowing smirks, the atmosphere in the living room feeling suddenly awkward and bated. 

Ian racked his brain to try and remember what they had been talking about before Mickey had wound up straddled on his lap. Prison. Books. _To Kill a Mockingbird_. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to will his dick back to sleep. “So, umm.. what did you think of it?” He stammered. “The book.”

Mickey cleared his throat, pelting an empty beer can into the corner of the room. “Yeah it wasn't bad, ay. I liked it.”

Ian nodded, noticing that his heartrate was finally returning to normal. “Who was your favourite character?”

Mickey laughed. “That Boo Radley, man. He was cool.”

“The scary neighbour dude who needed a little girl to escort him home?” Ian teased, as he playfully knocked their knees together.

“Fuck off,” Mickey drawled, sculling the remains of his beer and letting out a crude burp. “Everyone was fuckin’ scared of him but he was actually a decent guy. Just misunderstood and shit.”

“Do you think he had _FUCK-U-UP_ tattooed on his knuckles?”

Mickey burst out laughing, and Ian smiled, pleased that he could still make Mickey laugh. 

“Yeah man,” Mickey said, giggling and nodding his head. “I really think he did.” 

 

* * *

“Mick, do you care that I broke up with Nate?” Ian asked, as they were laying in Mickey’s bed together in the dark hours later. “I mean.. are you pleased.. that he’s out of the picture?”

Mickey snorted. Fucking Nate. “That name, man,” he groaned. “It fuckin’ gets me everytime.”

Ian giggled, no longer feeling guilty when Mickey complained about his ex-boyfriend.

Mickey turned from his back onto his side so he was facing Ian, just able to discern the the outline of his pale skin in the dark. “Better if you don't gotta boyfriend while we work our shit out, ay,” he said casually, even though the truth was, he was damn near thrilled that _Nate_ was history. But he figured Ian didn't really need to know that.

Ian nodded, agreeing silently.

Mickey tongued at this bottom lip, thoughtfully. “How long you with him for?”

Ian paused, making the calculations in his head. “Six or seven months,” he finally answered. “Long enough to know he's not for me.”

Mickey shrugged, suddenly unable to leave the issue alone. “You musta liked something about him.”

Ian sighed deeply. After his and Nate’s last conversation, he really was struggling to remember what that was. “I was lonely, I guess,” he began. “And I liked that he didn’t know what I was like before.. before.. you know, bipolar. He had nothing to compare me to.”

Mickey felt his hand reach up to cup the side of Ian’s face. “There ain’t no _before_ you and _after_ you, man,” he said, gently stroking Ian’s cheek with his thumb. “Just _you_.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I thought a lot about this shit, man,” Mickey said, tapping at his head in a gesture to illustrate that he’d been thinking. “When I got out of the joint, I felt different. Didn’t want the same things no more. But then I figured I was still me, just.. changed a bit.”

“I like how you are, Mick,” Ian said, breathily.

Mickey hummed. He wanted desperately to believe Ian when he said things like that, but it was difficult. He’d already been burned by Ian once and he still couldn’t shake the feeling that Ian would be bored of him eventually, that he would decide he didn’t like the way he was now, afterall. _When he realises I’m not the piece of southside trash he fell for,_ he said to himself. Fuck. He really needed to get over that shit.

“Everyone changes, man,” Mickey said with a shrug, trying to push the other thoughts from his mind. “Shit happens and you change or you keep makin’ the same mistakes or whatever the fuck.” 

Ian blinked, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by this thoughtful, downright philosophical side of Mickey that he had never seen before. “Mickey, I..” Ian stammered, once again unable to bring his words into existence. _I love you. I love you. I love you._ “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

Mickey giggled, awkwardly. He paused for a moment, staring at Ian’s face in the dark, trying to trace his features with his eyes. “Let’s go to sleep,” he said quietly, tapping Ian on the end of his nose before turning onto his side again, his back to the redhead.

Ian turned on his side, shuffling towards Mickey, so their bodies were pressed together lightly. Receiving no argument or resistance from Mickey, he draped an arm over him and nuzzled his nose into the soft area between his neck and shoulder, smiling against the skin there as he heard Mickey hum in appreciation.

“Goodnight, Mick.”

A moment of silence stretched out between them, before Mickey spoke again.

“Hey, Ian,” he said, his voice heavy with fatigue. “I like how you are, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, basically, I called Ian's boyfriends Nate, because I imagined something about the name would annoy the hell out of Mickey. I've had some fun with it.


	12. Family Values

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian toed off his shoes and removed his jeans, getting comfortable in his boxers, ready for sleep whenever it decided to wash over him. He sat down next to Mickey, but remained silent. They had made progress with their communication recently, but for the first time in a long time, Ian didn’t feel like communicating with words. He wanted Mickey to look after him, to hold him and touch him and do whatever he wanted with him. He slumped next to Mickey, resting his head on his shoulder.

Ian stood over the stove, waiting for the vegetables to finish steaming on the stovetop. _Cooking the old fashioned way,_ Fiona had called it. “It takes a lot longer to cook vegetables like this,” he mused, leaning back against the sink, glancing over to the bench where their microwave had once sat.

“I fucking know,” Fiona complained. “Feels like we're livin’ in the dark ages without a microwave.” A jaded laugh escaped her lips, as she thought about Monica and Frank, and their stolen appliances.

“We'll get a new one, soon,” Ian decided, with a nod. “I'll take on more shifts at the diner.”

Fiona snorted. “Are you serious, Ian?” she asked, hands on hips, her eyes wide and questioning. “You already spend half your life there. There's not enough hours in the day!”

“I could work doubles on Sundays,” he said lamely. He knew Fiona was right but he hated the fact that he couldn’t do more to help her at the best of times, not least when their own parents had robbed them. His mind wandered to the job that Nate had pulled out of thin air for him. He shuddered and quickly pushed that idea to the back of his mind.

“You need to rest too, ya know. It's important, especially with your-,” Fiona started. _Especially with your bipolar._ She stopped herself, noticing the look of frustration that was creeping across her brother’s face.

Ian turned his back on his sister, sighing, irritated. “Yeah,” he muttered, “I get it.” He leaned down, checking on the diner leftovers that were re-heating in the oven.

“You already do more than your share, Ian, and you're hardly ever here,” Fiona offered, attempting a compliment but realising afterwards that it sounded more like criticism. 

“Yeah well, I've been at Mickey's a lot. Not just work.”

“Anyone would think you were tryin’ to avoid Monica,” Fiona teased. She kept her voice light, but she couldn’t help wondering if there was an element of truth to this.

Between working long shifts at the diner and hanging out with Mickey and Mandy, it was true, Ian had hardly been home. But it wasn’t because he was trying to avoid Monica; he was finding it increasingly difficult to tease himself away from Mickey. And it didn’t seem like Mickey really wanted him to. Their sleepovers were now a regular occurrence, something that happened without invitation or ceremony, with Ian usually spending three or four nights a week at Mickey’s, depending on his diner shifts. 

Ian wouldn’t even know how to describe his and Mickey’s relationship now. They weren’t together, he had to keep reminding himself of that, but there was definitely something between them; he felt it everytime Mickey held his gaze for slightly too long, or when their bodies accidentally touched and neither of them moved away. They were friends, but that description didn’t seem like enough to describe what they had. Friends with benefits, maybe, if the benefit was cuddling. Since Ian had made peace with Svetlana, he felt a lot more comfortable than he had being at Mickey’s, almost like he belonged there again. But when the guilt Ian felt for not being with his family became too much, he would head home, helping Fiona with Liam or making dinner. The fact that spending time with Mickey meant that he hadn’t yet had to face his mother; well that was just a bonus. 

Ian was still anxious knowing that Monica was around, regardless. He’d heard her a few times, arriving home in the middle of the night, usually at some point past two am, blustering through the house like a whirlwind, slamming doors, scraping chairs, and rifling through the cupboards. Monica was never anywhere to be seen in the mornings, but her presence was felt in the piles of burned baked goods and empty pantry. 

“I won't approve your request for more shifts, just so you know,” Fiona said, finally, laughing haughtily. “I'm pullin’ rank!”

Ian felt his irritation wash away and he laughed at his sister’s joke. “Okay, okay,” he acquiesced, indulging her bossy nature with a grin.

Fiona looked down at her watch impatiently and rubbed at her forehead with her palm. “Where the fuck’s Lip?” she muttered, busying herself pulling plates out of the cupboard and depositing them on the dinner table. She counted the places she had set. “He said he’d be here, right?”

“He’s down The Alibi,” Ian rolled his eyes. “I’ll send him a message.” 

* * *

“Debbie, Carl! Dinner’s ready! Get your arses down here now or miss out!” Fiona yelled up the stairs, hands on her hips. She turned around and looked at their dry, unappetising meals on the dinner table, shaking her head in resignation. “Diner rejects. Enjoy!” she said sarcastically.

“At least they were free,” Ian shrugged, taking his seat at the table and cutting some of the crumbed chicken pieces into bitesize chunks for Liam. Once reheated, those chicken tenders didn’t quite live up to their name. 

“And now our house smells just like your work,” Lip quipped, nodding towards Ian and Fiona. “You two must feel completely at home.”

Ian screwed his face up in response to his brother’s comment. 

“This smells like shit,” Carl announced as he entered the kitchen and sat down sulkily at the table.

“Looks like shit, too,” Debbie groaned. 

“You two can shut up and be thankful we got any food at all tonight, or you can both go out and get jobs tomorrow,” Fiona barked with a pointed index finger. “God forbid either of you should start workin’ and helpin’ out around here, _jesus_.”

“Not our fault Monica keeps using up all our food,” Carl muttered.

“Well, it sure as hell aint mine, either!” Fiona exclaimed.

“There is such a thing as locking a door though,” Lip mused, shooting a smug grin at Ian, clearly pleased with himself.

“Well, it’s a pain in the arse cookin’ without a microwave, too,” she muttered, unable to let Lip have the last word.

“This actually isn’t too bad,” Ian offered, through a mouthful reheated chicken. “I mean, I’ve definitely eaten worse things at the diner.”

Fiona laughed hollowly. “What a great fucking accolade!” she groused, finaly sitting down at the table.

“It tastes like shit, tastes like shit,” Liam chanted, knife and fork in hands, banging his elbows on the table.

“LIAM!”

“We got no TV and this crap for dinner. Shoulda stayed upstairs and stared at the wall,” Carl deadpanned, using his fork to push his food around on the plate.

“Carl!”

“You could still do that,” Ian shot back.

“What is this green mush?” Debbie asked, screwing up her nose and prodding suspiciously at a piece of broccoli.

“That’s a vegetable,” Ian said, drily. He heard Lip and Carl snort their laughter.

“Ahh, happy families,” Fiona said, her voice thick with her exaggerated optimism.

Once everyone was seated, their dinner descended into the usual rabble of chatter and laughter they were accustomed to; Debbie complaining of boredom, Carl complaining about life in general, Lip’s stories about college and robots and artificial intelligence that they all entertained but didn't truly understand, Fiona and Ian recounting stories from their shifts at the diner. Ian loved being at Mickey’s house, but he had missed spending time with his siblings in all their chaotic glory. 

The back door suddenly burst open and a warm breeze from outside wafted in, tickling the tops of their heads. They dropped their knives and forks on their plates in unison, their heads turning towards the back door to see Frank waltzing into the house, greasy and dishevelled, with Monica in tow, eyes wide and grinning wildly. 

Ian felt his heart jump into his throat. He looked down at his dinner, unable to make eye contact with either Frank or Monica. Like a cat, he imagined if they couldn’t see his eyes, they couldn’t see him.

“Hello family! Fruit of my loins! Hope we’re not too late for dinner?” Frank called out with his usual antagonistic enthusiasm. 

A loud chorus of groans reverberated around the kitchen table and Fiona ran her hands through her hair, instantly anxious and harried. Ian concentrated on keeping himself inside the house, his sudden desire to leave for Mickey's almost overwhelming him.

Frank sniffed the kitchen air and then continued ranting, “On second thoughts, that doesn’t smell too flash,” he groused. “What is it that you do all day, daughter? Would it kill you to open a cookbook every now and then?”

“What do I do all day?” Fiona laughed, shaking her head in irritated bemusement. Ian was always impressed by her ability to keep her cool around Frank. “I work my arse off to earn money so I can look after your kids. Your kids, Frank? The ones you two left me to raise by myself when I was nine.” 

“Ignore him, Fi,” Lip groaned, his voice a mixture of frustration and boredom at this familiar played out scenario. He sat back in his chair, folding his arms, ready to watch the circus unfold. 

“When I open up my restaurant, you’re all invited!” Monica squealed in delight, seemingly oblivious to the sour response to their arrival.

Ian stole a quick glance at Monica. His blood turned cold as he peered through the looking glass of bipolar disorder, taking in his mother’s wide darting eyes and exaggerated, unabating grin. She was hypomanic. 

“You can all eat there whenever you want,” Monica exclaimed. “Oh, it will be so nice cooking for my family in my own restaurant. I can’t wait.” Monica clapped her hands together and giggled childishly.

“Restaurant,” Ian muttered derisively. So that was Monica’s latest project. It was an improvement upon running a mobile meth lab, but it was unfortunately a lot less likely to eventuate.

“You’ve had fifteen years to cook for your fuckin’ family, Monica. Why start now?” Fiona snapped, slamming her elbow down on the table and rubbing her forehead.

Monica continued giggling, ignoring Fiona’s outburst, finally turning her attention to Ian. “Ian, baby! My beautiful boy. It is so good to see you,” she cooed, holding out her arms, beckoning him into a hug. “I’ve missed you so much! You never come and visit me anymore. You’ve really grown, wow!”

Fiona leapt to her feet, immediately transitioning into mama bear mode, placing herself strategically between Monica and Ian, an arm outstretched. “Monica.. you need to leave Ian alone,” she said with calm insistence, as though she were talking her mother down from a ledge.

Ian’s heart was pounding in his ears like a marching band. He imagined himself running outside, taking off to Mickey’s. He needed to see Mickey right now, but he willed himself to stay inside the house, to stay seated. He had to prove to himself, and to Fiona and to Mickey, that he could face Monica. But to his own astonishment, he felt himself rise from his seat at the table, his legs carrying his body over to his mother’s open arms, his own arms wrapping around her, enveloping her in a hug. As usual, Monica’s presence had awakened something in him, some bizarre kinship with his estranged mother that he struggled to control.

“Hey,” Ian whispered against Monica’s shoulder.

“I’ve missed you, baby,” she said, her voice lilting and affectionate. She pushed him away slightly, her eyes looking him up and down, appraising him. “Why don’t you ever visit me, Ian? We always have a great time together!”

“I can’t visit you anymore,” Ian said morosely, looking down at his feet. 

Monica looked at Ian, confusion flashing briefly across her face, before her expression morphed back into her wide, exaggerated grin. “Hey, I have an idea,” she began, gleefully. “Let’s go out tonight. We can go to Boystown. Didn’t we always have fun there? We can get drunk and dance and find you a hot guy. Won’t that be fun?” 

“Well, I.. I..” Ian stammered awkwardly, wanting to turn down Monica’s offer but unable to form the words.

“Don’t bother, Moni. He’s practically a zombie!” Frank piped up, staggering towards them. “They’ve got this one heavily medicated. They finally brainwashed him into believing he has an objectionable personality. Now he’s taking fifteen pills a day and lining the pockets of big pharma. Won’t so much as sip at a beer for the fear he’ll throw off the delicate balance of drugs fighting in his brain, lest his _actual_ personality takes over.”

“Shut the fuck up, Frank,” Lip threatened, rising from his seat and pushing the sleeves on his jumper up to his elbows.

Ian closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to punch Frank in his filthy, wrinkled face. He recoiled as Frank’s diatribe echoed in his head. The man was nothing but an antagonistic sociopath at best, Ian knew that, but his words were all too familiar to him this time, dancing dangerously close to the thoughts he’d struggled with when he was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder and refusing medication.

“Ian. No, no, no. You don’t need those drugs, baby,” Monica exclaimed, indulging Ian’s self doubt in a way that only his mother seemed able. “I told you that, remember? You’re special. You’re just too much for most people to handle because they don’t understand you. But you don’t need them. Me and you - we’re the same. We need to stick together. You should come back to where I’m living with Pedro. We can all live there together.”

“Yes, please go back to Pedro, Monica,” Fiona said, nodding and grinning with false encouragement. “But Ian stays here. With us.”

Ian shook his head, taking a step backwards, trying to retreat from the scene entirely. “I’ve worked really hard at getting better, I can’t -,” he started. He wanted to explain to his mother that he was stable now. For whatever it was worth, he wanted her to know how far he’d come since the last time they had seen each other. Part of him still held onto the vain hope that Monica would see that he was doing better and get help herself.

“It’s a waste of time, Moni,” Frank said with contempt, stepping closer to Ian, peering up at his face and pointing. “Look at his eyes. You can see it in his eyes! He has no real thoughts or feelings of his own, anymore. His only loyalty now lies with his pharmaceutical overlords. Pfizer, Lilly, AstraZenca. They’re like gods to him.”

Ian could smell Frank’s foul alcohol-tainted breath against his skin, their faces only an inch or so apart. He was always the focus of the vitriol from this sad, pathetic man and he was fucking sick of it. Hell, they were all sick and tired of Frank, but somehow, after all this time, they were still powerless to keep him out of their house, out of their lives.

“Shut the fuck up, Frank. _Please_ just get the fuck out,” Fiona pleaded.

“Listen, Frank. They’re having a two for one down The Alibi,” Lip said, prodding Frank in the back with an index finger. “Why don’t you go down and start pickling that new liver you got? Your family doesn’t want you.”

“Listen to my bitter, ungrateful progeny,” Frank exclaimed, moving away from Ian and turning his attention back to Lip and Fiona. “Always complaining, the lot of you. Never appreciative of anything your doting parents ever do for you. You know, your mother did you a favour by getting rid of that microwave. Damn things are death traps; always leaking radiation. And if it doesn’t kill you now, it will get any sorry excuses for children you lot will spawn. Your damn kids will be lucky if they don’t have two heads and three eyes.”

“Oh my god,” Debbie groaned, as she began storming up the stairs to her bedroom. “Just shut the fuck up.” 

Ian took another step backwards trying to put distance between himself and his parents. But like a monster in a horror movie, the movement seemed to direct Frank’s attention back to him, Ian becoming the target of Frank’s abuse, yet again.

“Maybe that’s what happened to this one?” Frank yelled, turning around to face Ian and pushing him backwards. 

Ian cringed as he backed into the refrigerator, one of Liam’s alphabet magnets jabbing sharply into the back of his head.

“The radiation must have warped his brain. That’s why he’s a basketcase! Probably why he’s a queer and a ginger, too.”

“Fuck you, Frank!” Carl yelled. “Leave Ian alone!”

Ian shook his head in disgust, grinding his teeth and making fists with his hands. _Breathe deeply, count to ten._

“Please, _please_ just leave us all alone,” Fiona said quietly, on the verge of begging, cradling her forehead with her hand. “Just go.”

“Your family doesn’t want you, Frank,” Lip repeated. “Can you hurry up and OD, so we can all relax knowing you'll never bother us again?”

There was a brief silence, Frank having possibly been rendered speechless from Lip’s insult.

“Remember that time, Ian, when we were travelling around, meeting all those interesting people?” Monica’s babbling voice filling the void, her mental state unable or unwilling to discern the tension in the air.

Ian looked up at his mother, looking into her eyes, searching for some semblance of reason. “We were living in a crack house,” he said pointedly.

“But what an experience! That’s what life is all about, Ian. Experiences. Seeing things. Meeting people. Everybody else is just too wrapped up in themselves to notice the world. Not like us,” Monica continued, giggling and waving her arms around emphatically. “We have a gift, you and I. We don’t need anyone to control us. We do what we want, when we want. Come and live with me, Ian. You can work at the restaurant I’m opening. You can be part-owner - we’ll be business partners.”

Ian squeezed his fists so tightly he could feel his nails digging into his palms. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I have a life here. If you can’t.. if you can’t accept that, then please, just leave,” Ian said as calmly as possible

“A life? Working in that diner?” She laughed and placed her hands on Ian’s cheeks, pulling their faces close.

 _That diner._ Ian nodded slowly, feeling his mental resolve weakening as his mother picked at his still fresh wounds. 

“You must be so bored there, Ian!” Monica exclaimed.

_Yes, I am._

“That’s no life for someone like you. Ian, you could do so much more,” she cooed, seemingly echoing his own thoughts. 

_I could, yeah._

“I remember when you had big dreams,” his mother continued.

_I remember that, too._

“We can get your old job back at that club. You were so good at that, and everyone else will get to see how special you are, too.”

 _I_ was _good at that._

“Monica. Please just go back to whatever meth lab or crack house you crawled out of and stay the fuck out of our lives,” Lip said, placing a hand on their mother’s shoulder.

Ian scrubbed at his face with his hands, taking advantage of the brief lull in conversation to will himself out of the reverie of his mother’s manipulations. “If you want to stay,” he began, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes while collecting his thoughts, “if you want to stay and be part of my life, you have to take your medication.” His voice was stoic and robotic and he knew he sounded just like everyone else in his life, but it was true. If she really loved them she would at least try.

“Listen to this one!” Frank barked with an incredulous laugh, a fist flailing out and hitting Ian suddenly and violently across his temple. 

Ian grabbed at his head where Frank had hit him, his vision suddenly fading, being replaced temporarily by darkness and a spattering of stars. He blinked frantically through the pain, hearing Fiona's screams and Lip and Carl’s angry yelling, but between his throbbing head and the ringing in his ears, their voices felt miles away. Ian vaguely wondered how someone as wizen and sinewy as Frank could pack such force behind a punch. 

“Not content with just drinking the big pharma kool-aid, he’s spruiking the stuff too!” Frank continued, butting at Ian’s chest with his fingers. “Trying to get his own mother hooked. The shame!”

Ian surged forward, his sight returned but tunneled, towering over Frank, their faces so close Ian could almost count each individual hair littering the disgusting man’s face. At the periphery of his vision he saw Lip standing behind Frank, ready for a fight.

“That’s your son, Moni. Just a big pharma drone. A sales representative,” Frank said, unperturbed by Ian’s show of aggression.

Ian felt a rush of adrenaline course through his body. His arms and legs were tingling and light and burning hot. He started counting again, trying to temper his rage. _One, two, three_ -.

Before Ian had even registered what was happening, he had Frank pinned up against the back door jamb, a fist slamming into his face, the back of his head hitting the door frame. Ian watched as Frank’s eyes flickered and a moan escaped his mouth. There was yelling in the kitchen behind him, but Ian couldn't discern the words. All he could hear was the howling rush of his blood in his ears and his own heaving breath. Someone, probably Lip, had opened the back door, and Ian sank his foot into Frank’s stomach, kicking him out onto the back porch landing.

“The f-fuck… use-useless piece… shit.. No son o’ m-mine,” came Frank’s gurgled moan from outside.

“Oh my god, Ian. Oh my god, oh my god,” Fiona was saying, covering her mouth with her hand. 

“Fuck! Someone shut the fucking door!” Lip yelled out.

“Oh, Ian! Oh, Frank!” Monica cried, running to the back door, her eyes darting between Ian and the back porch where Frank had landed. 

Ian looked down at his body, surprised to see his fists and arms and legs still attached to him, when they had felt foreign and possessed just seconds ago. His eyes surveyed the room, taking in the stunned expressions on the faces of his family.

“If you want to stay with us, you need to take your medication, Monica,” Ian repeated, placing his hands on her arms. “It’s really hard, but you can do it. I’ve done it. I'll be there for you, but only if we go down to the clinic tomorrow, and get you a new prescription.”

“No, Ian!” she cried out, laughing. “You're drugged. You don't even know what you are saying!”

Another chortled groan emanated from outside. Monica looked frantically around the kitchen at her children and then back towards the direction of Frank’s moans, unsure where her loyalties settled, before removing herself from Ian’s grasp and heading out the backdoor, down the back steps to Frank.

Fiona lunged towards the back door and locked it. “Jesus Christ, Ian. Are you okay? What _was_ that?” She yelled, staring at him as if she were trying to remember who he was. She blinked slowly, trying to make sense of the scene that had just played out in the kitchen.

“I'm okay,” Ian replied. “I'm going-.” _I’m going to Mickey’s,_ he had wanted to say.

“Ian,” Fiona said, glaring at him, her voice a terse warning.

Ian sighed. Fiona wanted to see him resist the urge to run away. He got it. “I’m going upstairs,” he relented.

* * *

Ian sat in the window sill of his room, his arms hugging his knees, staring absently out across the neighbourhood. What the fuck had happened? For as long as Ian could remember, he had been on the receiving end of Frank's verbal and sometimes physical abuse. While the man managed to manipulate and upset all the Gallagher kids repeatedly, except for maybe Liam, it had been Ian who had suffered Frank’s violence. And despite being someone who would always stand up for himself, when it came to Frank, Ian had never fought back. Ian's feelings for Frank bordered on loathing, but part of him had always balked at the idea of fighting with his father, even if Frank wasn't actually his father. Maybe it was because Ian had always known that a fight between the two of them wouldn't be fair, that Ian could easily beat him if he wanted to. Or maybe it was because Frank's ramblings, though annoying, were usually ludicrous and nonsensical, and easy for Ian to shake off as the rantings of a madman. So Ian had always resisted the temptation to return any of Frank’s punches. Until now. Because for the first time, Frank Gallagher and his verbal diarrhoea had gotten under Ian's skin. 

“Yo,” Lip said, shuffling onto the window sill, contorting his body to fit in the space next to his brother. “Nice night for an arse-kicking.”

Ian laughed, in spite of himself, his eyes fixed on the neighbouring rooftops, not bothering to turn his head to look at his brother.

Lip pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it. “I never thought I’d see the day that you’d actually hand Frank his arse on a platter,” he said, exhaling a long stream of smoke.

“He pissed me off,” Ian said simply.

Lip didn’t reply immediately, instead savouring a couple more drags from his smoke, letting silence fall between them, but Ian could tell his brother wanted to say something. “Hey, I just gotta ask something,” Lip said, nervously rubbing at his forehead. 

Ian sighed, confident that he knew where this conversation was headed. He closed his eyes, as a sharp, stabbing pain radiated through his head where Frank had punched him.

“You’re feeling okay, right?” Lip continued, “I mean, you’re not.. you know?”

Ian rolled his eyes. There it was. _Hypomanic._ “No, I’m not hypomanic, man. I’m fine,” he muttered.

Lip nodded, watching as the smoke he exhaled curled and dispersed in front of them. “Well, I’d be a pretty crap brother if I didn’t bother asking,” he added.

Ian exhaled deeply. “I don't want to talk about any of this, by the way,” he said bluntly, waving a hand around in front of him for emphasis. “So don’t bother straining yourself.”

Lip stared at his brother with raised eyebrows, the fact that Ian seemed reluctant to meet his eyes was not lost on him. It was time for a change of subject. “So, Fiona told me your Northside boyfriend got you a sweet job?” he said, finally.

Ian huffed, wondering if Lip truly considered this topic of conversation an improvement on the previous one. “He’s not my boyfriend anymore,” Ian snapped, churlishly. 

“So?”

“So, the job offer is irrelevant if we’ve broken up,” Ian shrugged, then because he felt the need to continue justifying himself for some reason, he added, “Even if he still wants me to have it, I can’t-.”

“Wait,” Lip interrupted. “You two broke up and he still wants you to take the job?”

Ian groaned. He closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair, regretting that he had let that small detail slip. “I don’t want to owe him any favours,” he growled. “I’m not some fucking bipolar Southside trash sob story.” 

Lip laughed angrily, unable to believe his ears. “What the fuck, Ian?” He wondered if his brother ever thought about the words that came out of his mouth. 

“I don’t want someone’s charity because it makes a couple of rich pricks feel good about themselves,” Ian said stubbornly, even though he knew that was only part of the problem. Ian was also pissed off about Nate’s implication that he needed someone else to decide shit for him. _Do something good for yourself,_ Nate had said as though Ian was incapable of making good choices.

“Who gives a fuck!” Lip hollered, throwing his spent cigarette butt out into the darkness, and fumbling around for another one.

“I do.”

Lip shook his head in disbelief. “This job would really fucking help Fiona, you know. She’s really struggling,” he said lighting his next smoke. “Shit, Ian. It would fucking help you, too.”

Ian slammed his hand down on the window sill. This was not the conversation he wanted to be having after the night he’d had. He rubbed at his throbbing head, pressing at a large lump that was forming under the skin, his fingers becoming sticky with blood. “Of course I know it would fucking help Fiona!” his voice cracked. “You think I haven’t thought of that?” 

Lip paused, contemplating which direction to take this argument. He needed to tread carefully if he wanted to avoid getting his own arse kicked. “Do you seriously think when you walked into the Kash and Grab,” he started, “that you got the job because that paedophile thought you looked like a hard worker?”

Ian snorted, resenting his brother’s analogy, but remained quiet. 

“There’s always a motive, man,” Lip continued, the anger in his voice losing its edge. “But, if no one’s getting hurt or molested, then what is the problem?”

Ian shook his head. “Kash didn’t molest me.”

Lip laughed, bitterly. “Yeah, sure, because that was _definitely_ the point I was making,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He paused, taking a thoughtful drag from his cigarette. “We _are_ fucking Southside trash, Ian. But we may as well let it work for us on the rare occasion we’re not being shit on.”

Ian hummed in consideration, silently cursing himself as he wondered if maybe Lip had a point. He let his thoughts drift back to Fiona and how hard she worked to keep them fed and warm and safe, and the fact that it was never enough. He always felt guilty that he wasn't able to help her more. Yet the thought of accepting charity from his ex-boyfriend left a bad taste in his mouth and at the same time he was scared that a new job would be too much for him.

_The fear he’ll throw off the delicate balance of drugs fighting in his brain, lest his actual personality takes over._

“Fuck,” Ian muttered to himself. Fucking Frank. All that time Ian been worried that he’d let Monica get inside his head, and Frank, of all fucking people, had wormed his way in there, instead. What an absolute fucking joke. 

Lip leaned over towards Ian, nudging their shoulders together. “I know you’re used to disagreeing with me these days on principle,” he said with a shrug. “But I’m not always wrong, you know.”

“You’re not always right, either.”

Lip sighed, loudly. “You don’t always have to be stubborn, Ian.”

Ian smirked, sensing that their argument had lost its fangs. “You don’t always have to be a dick.”

“I honestly don’t think I’m being a dick, right now.”

“Arsehole,” Ian said, playfully pushing his brother against the edge of the window sill. His head was hurting, distracting him from the effort required to stay annoyed at his brother.

“Shithead.”

They giggled quietly and fell silent, listening with morbid curiosity as a couple in a neighbouring house screamed obscenities at one another. 

"So what about sometime soon we go and lock down this cafe job?” Lip suggested, feeling as if he might be on the way to winning this particular battle with his brother. “We can sample the product first, see if it’s something you want to be associated with.”

“Maybe,” Ian contemplated. He wasn’t about to make any promises. “I’ll think about it.”

* * *

Ian crept around the darkened Milkovich house at some time after one thirty in the morning, trying desperately to be quiet so as not to wake one of Mickey’s brothers and risk winding up with a bullet in his head. He felt like a stalker. After his fight with Frank and the conversation with Lip, he’d been unable to sleep. His head was pulsing with throbs, and every position he had tried to sleep in, resulted in pain radiating through his skull. He needed to see Mickey, to sleep in the bed with him and let Mickey hold him while he tried to sleep through the pain left by Frank’s fist.

Ian had sent Mickey a message, _I need to see you,_ barely convinced that he would bother replying at past one in the morning. But less than two minutes later, Ian had received a reply; 

_Backdoor unlocked_. 

So Ian had left a note for Fiona, grabbed some spare clothes and his meds and made his way to Mickey’s house, where he wandered through the hallway, using muscle memory and the familiar creaking of the floorboards to navigate his way to Mickey’s bedroom in the dark.

“Mick,” Ian said, quietly as he tapped on Mickey’s bedroom door. He heard a muffled sound from behind the door and took this as his cue to enter. He found Mickey sitting on the edge of his bed, pulling a tshirt over his head.

“‘Sup, man? You okay?” Mickey greeted him, his voice thick and groggy from being woken only minutes earlier.

Ian paused, trying to decide how best to explain everything that had happened that night. “I've had.. a rough night,” he said, finally.

“The fuck happened?” Mickey asked, patting at the bed next to him, gesturing for Ian to sit down.

Ian toed off his shoes and removed his jeans, getting comfortable in his boxers, ready for sleep whenever it decided to wash over him. He sat down next to Mickey, but remained silent. They had made progress with their communication recently, but for the first time in a long time, Ian didn’t feel like communicating with words. He wanted Mickey to look after him, to hold him and touch him and do whatever he wanted with him. He slumped next to Mickey, resting his head on his shoulder.

Mickey shifted his position slightly, supporting himself against Ian’s weight with his hand on the mattress. “Was it Monica?” he asked softly, moving closer to Ian so their arms were touching.

Ian nodded. “Monica and Frank,” he muttered, robotically. “Frank sucker-punched me right across the head.”

Mickey felt himself fill with rage and the overwhelming desire to protect Ian, the familiar old feeling that was usually only sated by serving a fucking beatdown to the first person he saw who deserved one. His fists were practically itching at the thought of it. Fucking Frank Gallagher. Mickey would love to ram his fist down that arsehole’s fucking throat at the best of times. If beating on Ian wasn’t reason enough to serve the guy the Milkovich Special, then Mickey didn’t know what the fuck was.

“Fuck that piece of shit,” Mickey cursed, cracking the knuckles on his FUCK hand. “Next time I see him, he's gonna need more than a new fuckin’ liver.”

Ian shook his head, half-heartedly. “He’s not worth it, Mick.”

Mickey wasn’t so sure about that. He could get away with kicking Frank Gallagher’s arse without winding up back in the big house. No problems. But Frank would keep. Mickey's biggest concern right now, was Ian.

“So what happened with Monica,” Mickey asked, lighting a cigarette with his free hand. He listened as Ian told him everything that had happened that night back at the Gallagher house. He silently thanked the fucking universe that Ian was sitting next to him in his room, clinging to him like a life raft, instead of with his mother somewhere.

“Glad you're here, man,” Mickey said, putting his arm around Ian and squeezing his shoulders. “But we gotta make sure you don't need fuckin’ stitches.”

Ian recoiled from against Mickey's body. “I can’t afford a doctor, Mick.”

Mickey giggled. “I ain't seen a cut that couldn't be fixed with superglue and a fuckin bandaid, man,” he said, leaning over to switch on the lamp beside his bed. He turned around to face Ian, kneeling on the bed. 

“Aight, this might fuckin’ hurt, princess,” Mickey warned, slowly pulling strands of Ian’s hair from the cut at the side of his head, causing fresh blood to ooze from the wound. He hummed, assessing the damage that Frank had caused. 

Ian hissed briefly, as the gash on his head stung under Mickey’s touch. But the sensation of Mickey’s fingers gently touching his face soon caused his body to react in pleasure instead. Ian bit his tongue trying to stifle the groan that threatened to escape his mouth.

“Looks nasty, but it ain't too bad.”

“Are you gonna tell me you got a medical degree in prison, or something?” Ian said quietly, trying to keep his cool. 

“You think anyone grows up in this fuckin’ house without learnin’ how to fix this kinda shit?” Mickey laughed, his breath hot against Ian's lips. “You're fine, Gallagher. Think you’re gonna live.”

“Thanks,” Ian breathed, his voice catching in his throat. He felt suddenly awkward, hyperaware and unsure of what to do with his body. They were still sitting so close but he didn't know if he should move away. He only knew he didn't want to.

Mickey ran his thumb over the blood on the side of Ian’s head. “You’re bleedin’ though,” he murmured, looking into Ian’s eyes, losing himself in their beautiful green and blue flecks. “Need to clean you the fuck up.” But Mickey made no attempt to remove his hand, to stop his fucking thumb from caressing the side of Ian’s face or moving down to rub along the edge of his bottom lip. And when the irresistible gravitational pull between them caused their lips to meet, he couldn't pull himself away. 

Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian, one hand cradling the back of his head. He ran his tongue over Ian's lips, parting them, kissing and licking the inside of his mouth, slowly and gently, unlike anything they’d done before. He felt his dick awakening as he let Ian pull him down onto the bed. Fuck, it really had been a while. 

Ian ran his fingers over the skin under Mickey’s tshirt, making delicious grunts of appreciation through their kiss. He rolled them over, pinning Mickey down onto the bed and slowly started grinding his hips. “Mickey.. Fuck. I want you. Right now. Like this,” he breathed against Mickey’s lips.

Mickey groaned, grinding his own hips in response, wrapping his legs around Ian, thinking that he might actually come in his boxers any second now, like a fucking virgin teenager. Until the taste of metal filled his mouth. Blood. Just like the last time they'd fucked.

In an instant, Mickey’s heart began beating at an uncomfortable and violent pace in his chest. He pulled his mouth away from Ian’s, turning his head to the side as his mind started torturing him with painful memories. Ian’s fist in his face. The dugouts. _I need the bitch-slapping, shit-talking piece of Southside trash I fell for. Where is he Mickey?_ Standing on the street outside Ian's house. _It means we take care of each other._ Opening up to Ian in a way he never had with anyone, only for Ian to slam his doors in his fucking face. Being dumped. _This is it. This is you breaking up with me._ The wind being knocked out of him as his heart broke; sudden yet torturously slow at the same time. Gunshots. Sammi. Running for his life. Prison. The dreadful, taunting ache in his chest where his heart used to be.

“Fuck. I can't.. I can't do this right now,” he gasped, manoeuvring himself out from underneath Ian, and leaping off the bed. He looked down at Ian, laying back on the bed so fucking ready for him. His red hair all messed up, his lips all pink and pretty and swollen. Mickey felt like fucking kicking himself. “Shit, Ian. I'm fuckin’ sorry.”

“Wait.. Mick,” Ian pleaded, following Mickey instinctively without thinking. “Mickey, stop. Please.”

But Ian wasn’t quick enough. Mickey had already made it to the bathroom and had locked the door behind him.

Ian stood alone in the middle of Mickey's room, looking around him and wondering what in the hell had just happened. 

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just want to apologise for this chapter. I know this fanbase has been going through some stuff this week, and this chapter is... not particularly uplifting, so I am sorry about that - it's just a coincidence!
> 
> Also this fic is probably going to end up a bit of an opus, so thankyou to everyone who reads and comments and just generally enjoys it.. there's still quite a bit more to come :)
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr; http://radiatingsuburbanangst.tumblr.com/


	13. Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey sighed, sliding his hand under Ian's tshirt. It felt easier to open up to him if he was touching him, like they were connected more than just physically. “It’s hard to stop thinkin’ about the bad shit, ay,” he mused. “But I will. Just dunno how long it’s gonna take, man.”
> 
> Ian shrugged, looking directly into Mickey’s blue eyes. He was so fucking beautiful. “It takes however long it takes.”
> 
> Mickey nodded, swallowing thickly as his stomach somersaulted in a very pleasant and very gay fashion. “Don’t wanna keep you waitin’ though.”
> 
> “I don’t care about that,” Ian said quickly, dismissing the idea with a shake of his head. “I just want to be in your life.”
> 
> Mickey let out a shaky breath, part lust, part sheer fucking relief. This conversation had gone so much better than he’d imagined. “So will you? Wait?” he asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings. See end notes.

“Thanks for the Merc,” Mickey muttered, tossing the keys to the delivery van carelessly across the reception desk to Tom. He continued towards the front door of the depot office.

Tom managed to catch the keys and looked at Mickey with a raised eyebrow. “See ya tomorrow, Mickey Moodyvich.”

Mickey stopped in his tracks and turned around to face the smug bastard. “The fuck you just call me?” Clearly this guy had no idea who the fuck he was talking to. 

“You’re back to grunting at us around here,” Tom said, shrugging.

Mickey huffed, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another. He was itching to get out of there. “Yeah well. Gotta lot of shit goin’ on.” 

“Yeah?” Tom asked. 

“Bad breakup,” Mickey muttered in an attempt to get Tom off his back. Not that it was any of this guy’s damn business, anyway. Were people always this fucking nosy?

Tom nodded. “Right,” he said with a knowing smirk. “Women, huh. Can’t live with ‘em-.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” Mickey grumbled and looked away, turning to leave the office. 

Tom tapped his fingers on his desk and coughed, clearing his throat. “Listen,” he started. “Me and some mates are heading out to get fucked up tonight. Come if you want. Blow off some steam.”

“Uhh, what?” Mickey stammered. This was new. He wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who got invited places. He hung out with Ian and Mandy or sat around the house with his brothers drinking and playing video games. That was the extent of his social life and he'd always been okay with that.

“Have some fun. Take your mind of shit,” Tom offered. “It might make my work day a little easier.”

Mickey considered the offer. He could think of few things worse than sitting around with a bunch of fucking bros pretending to care about sports and cars or some shit. But the alternative was sitting at home thinking about Ian. Neither option was great.

“Maybe another time,” he eventually declined. “Uh.. thanks for askin.’”

“No problem,” Tom replied, as Mickey took off out the front door to head towards the El. 

Without work to distract him, Mickey's thoughts turned to Ian as he waited for the train. He figured he should probably message him or something but truthfully, he could do with a bit of time out while he tried to work out what the fuck was going on inside his head. When he thought about Ian he kept coming back to the same four fucking words; _too much, too soon_. They’d gone from cuddling in bed to almost fucking pretty damn quickly, and as much as Mickey’s dick and his arse had wanted it, his brain and his heart just hadn’t caught the fuck up yet.

Mickey hadn’t meant to leave Ian standing around with his dick in his hand but once he’d put his fist through the bathroom wall and it had done shit all to make him feel better, he hadn’t known what the fuck else to do. Getting drunk would have meant facing Ian and that just wasn’t going to happen right then and there. He’d been all out of coping mechanisms.

He didn’t know how long he’d stayed in the bathroom. It could have been five minutes, or it could have been a fucking hour. He’d just sat there radiating anger and frustration and self-loathing through his pores. Regardless, once he’d resurfaced, Ian wasn’t there and he felt like a massive piece of shit. Ian had come to him upset and _bleeding_ for fucksake, and Mickey had just left him there, all vulnerable and needy, until the kid had eventually gone home. All because Mickey had freaked out like a fucking virgin on prom night at the possibility of the two of them fucking. _Jesus_.

It wasn’t really about fucking, Mickey knew that. God knows he’d sowed his wild oats around Boystown like nobody’s business before he and Ian had started talking again. Mickey really thought he’d be okay taking things further. He’d needed time and they’d definitely had that; they’d been talking and getting closer for weeks now. But the memories of him and Ian during those final months just wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone. He was starting to wonder if he’d ever be able to get back together with him. What if Ian got tired of waiting for him to get the fuck over his issues? 

Jesus fucking christ, Mickey wanted to kick his own arse.

He was about thirty seconds away from walking back to work and taking Tom up on his offer, when the El finally arrived. Mickey boarded, sitting down with a huff in a seat by himself. He felt his face form an irritable scowl that matched his mood, as he settled in for a silent and lonely trip back to Canaryville.

* * *

Ian woke up with a start as he had done every morning since his and Mickey’s most recent doomed kiss. When his brain fog cleared, the memories came flooding back to him, sharp and loud and urgent. It was all Ian could think about, his recollections of _the incident_ weighing heavy and muddled in his mind. It had been four days since he had retreated home in the early hours of the morning, confused and upset, blood dripping from the cut on his temple. Four days of reliving the scene over and over in his head, yet still unable to comprehend exactly what the hell had happened. 

Mickey’s words echoed in Ian’s mind on a loop, _I can’t do this right now._ A blanket of panic set in as he wondered if he completely misread the signals and pushed Mickey too far. Maybe they had spent so much time apart that they weren’t in sync physically anymore? Maybe Ian had only _thought_ Mickey was into it because Ian himself had been. Afterall, he was the one who pulled Mickey down onto the bed and started telling him all the things he wanted to do to him. But it had seemed like Mickey was into it. Until he wasn't.

Ian hadn’t heard from Mickey since, and that was almost more concerning than the fact that he had freaked out in the first place. Ian was worried about him. He hadn't contacted him because he was giving him space. But as the days dragged by and Ian wallowed in the murky quicksand of his own thoughts, the more unsure of everything he became. He didn't know what had happened, or why and he didn't know what he could do to fix it.

He threw himself into his work, trying desperately to keep himself from wallowing. After begging Fiona, he was working double shifts most days which left little time for anything besides sleep. Mandy had scored a job at a rival diner, a block away from Patsy’s Pies, so Ian could at least walk to work with his best friend before he endured twelve hours of monotonous diner boredom. But being best friends with his ex-boyfriend’s sister was both a blessing and a curse. He was grateful for Mandy’s company, but the temptation to ask her about Mickey was almost too great. And he couldn’t tell Mandy what had happened, or almost happened - that would be far too embarrassing. So despite wanting desperately to talk to someone about it, he forced himself to keep his mouth shut.

Ian had half expected Mickey to text him or show up at the Gallagher house after he’d had time to cool off and think, but by the end of the first week, Ian still hadn’t seen or heard from him. This was a problem.

* * *

Mickey turned the taps on, making sure the water for Yev’s bath was just the right temperature for the little guy. He stared at the tub as it filled slowly, watching as the light from the ceiling danced over the water surface, making random, marbled patterns on the bottom. The only person that Mickey could stand to be around at the moment was his son. And that was probably because Yevgeny was too young to form proper sentences so there was no way in hell the toddler was going to start asking him about Ian. 

Once the bath was filled enough, he threw some of Yev’s bath toys into the water and called out for Svetlana to bring the kid. She appeared next to him almost immediately, plopping a naked Yevgeny into the warm water.

“When you fix this hole you made in wall, huh?” Svetlana said gesturing to the cavernous fist-sized mess of plaster and wiring next to the medicine cabinet. She sat down gingerly on the edge of the tub.

Mickey snorted. She couldn't be serious. “The fuck? You seen the rest of this place?” he bit back, gesturing around him with his hands. “This fuckin’ hole is the least of our problems.”

Svetlana raised an eyebrow and shrugged disdainfully. “I draw the line at hole in bathroom wall.”

“Oh, you got fuckin’ standards now?” he growled. He stood up, folding his arms in defiance. “You knew this weren’t ever gonna be a _Pretty Woman_ situation and you sure as shit ain’t Julia Roberts.”

“Don’t punish me for fight with Orange Boy,” Svetlana said, her lips curling into a sneer. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey snarled, glancing towards the doorway to avoid her accusatory gaze. “There ain’t no fight. We’re sorting our shit out.”

Svetlana laughed, turning her attention to Yevgeny as she gently cleaned him with a washer. “You mean Orange Boy is sorting his shit out, while husband punches walls.”

“Do you have a fuckin’ point?” He asked slowly and deliberately. Getting into it with Svetlana was about the last thing he felt like doing. But their mouths were moving, so it was inevitable. 

“Orange Boy comes to you with his drama. Husband listens.”

“His name is Ian,” Mickey rolled his eyes. “And so fuckin’ what? Stop fuckin’ eavesdroppin’!”

“Everything,” she said, gesturing in the space around them with one hand, ”is always about _Ian_ , never about you.”

Mickey bristled uncomfortably at Svetlana’s words. He felt heat rising involuntarily in his cheeks as somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet voice told him she might be right. _Fuck._

“The fuck am I listening to relationship advice from a fuckin’ whore who seemed happy enough to marry the guy she was hired to fuck the faggot out of, huh?” He growled, immediately defensive.

Yevgeny reacted to Mickey's raised voice with a soft grizzling cry. Mickey winced, feeling like an even bigger piece of shit than before. None of this was the kid’s fault. He needed to watch his fucking mouth. 

Svetlana shot Mickey an angry look as she patted Yevgeny on the head, speaking softly in Russian as she comforted him. 

“Shit, come on now,” Mickey said, sitting down next to Svetlana on the edge of the bath. “I didn’t mean that. Shouldn’t have fuckin’ said it.”

“It’s mostly true,” she said, blithely.

Mickey sighed, rubbing at his forehead in exasperation. “Look, you know I don’t blame you for that, ay?” He muttered, stealing a sideways glance at his wife. “Neither of us fuckin’ wanted that shit to happen. If it weren’t you, daddy dearest woulda got someone else to do it.”

Svetlana huffed loudly but didn't speak.

Mickey paused, reaching down to Yevgeny and wiping his wet hair from his forehead affectionately. He wished Ian was around. 

“I know you fuckin’ hate me these days,” he muttered, taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the next words out of his mouth. “But I’m glad it was you.” 

He looked down at Yevgeny, splashing in the water oblivious to his parent’s hostility towards each other, staring back up at him with steely blue eyes. “This kid is going to be fuckin’ bad arse with our genes,” he murmured, more to himself than Svetlana.

“I don’t hate you,” Svetlana said finally, breaking their uncomfortable silence. “I was.. _pissed_ because you put yourself in prison. You cared more about the mess you made with Orange Boy, than Yevgeny.”

Mickey groaned, thinking about how he'd come to make that particular life decision. “I knew how bad I fucked up soon as I was in there, ay,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck all I could do about it by then, ‘cept hope for an early release.”

Svetlana rolled her eyes, her expression a mixture of impatience and disbelief. 

Mickey chewed on his lip. “Fuck, I’m tryin’ here,” he said quietly. “Dunno how to be a good dad cos I ain't ever seen one. But I'm tryin’.”

Svetlana gave a short, reluctant nod. Mickey sensed that topic of conversation was over and he couldn’t have been fucking happier.

“I like Orange Boy,” Svetlana said absently. “Talk to him about your shit instead of destroying house, yes?”

“When I’m ready,” he grumbled.

* * *

In the hallway, Mandy stood frozen, unable to move and too scared to breathe, reeling from the conversation she had overheard between her brother and Svetlana. She hadn’t intended to listen in but by the time Mickey had started yelling, she was outside the bathroom and there was no fucking way she was going to risk stepping on the wrong creaking floorboard and making her presence known. So she’d lingered there hearing everything as Mickey unknowingly revealed his closest kept secret to his sister.

Her entire being was roiling with a nauseating combination of anger, hatred and guilt. Their father forcing Mickey to fuck a prostitute at gunpoint was news to her. At the same time it had never really made sense to her that Mickey had married Svetlana, especially once she’d found out about him and Ian. On some level she felt as though she had always known that the truth of the situation would be fucked up. Hearing the words from Mickey’s own mouth was like a horrifying reminder of a reality she hadn’t known she’d been trying to forget. She’d had the perfect opportunity to get rid of their father way back when she’d had the abortion that Ian paid for. But she’d been too scared. _Scared_. It seemed like an understatement now. A joke. How scared must Mickey have been being forced to fuck someone at gunpoint? It amazed her how futile and meaningless words became in hindsight.

Hearing shuffling in the bathroom and the sound of the bath draining, Mandy forced her body to move, silent and stealthily back to her bedroom. Her breath was heaving in her chest and she wondered how any of them could ever truly escape the horrors of their fucking Southside lives. Just when she felt like she’d made some progress, something always happened to drag her back down. The only thing she knew for certain, was that she was way too fucking sober to deal with any of this shit.

* * *

Mickey sculled the last half of his beer and pelted the empty can at the tv screen, as he died unceremoniously at the hands of a german soldier in Call of Duty. _Those fucking krauts._ He burped loudly and laughed, but no one laughed alongside him. There were no ribs to playfully sink his elbow into. No red hair practically glowing under the light from the tv and the familiar old sinking feeling that plagued him back when Ian had first dumped him, had resurfaced aching and heavy in his gut. He was alone again.

He pulled out his phone and started tapping out a message to Ian, telling him to come over. But his feelings and thoughts were a jumbled mess, caught somewhere between his head and his heart. He needed to figure out how he felt about everything before he saw Ian again. He deleted the message and threw his phone across the floor. 

Mickey wondered vaguely whether there was a difference between being in love with someone and wanting a relationship with them. He was in love with Ian, he knew that. But he kept asking himself if he was sure he wanted to be his boyfriend again. So far he’d just been waiting for time to heal his wounds or some fucking chick flick bullshit. But Mickey was starting to realise that time was one slow moving motherfucker. 

He thought about all the times recently that Ian had gone back home for Gallagher family dinners and Mickey had laughed off his half-arsed invitations. The very idea of walking into that front fucking yard, up those porch steps where Mickey could still picture Ian sitting as he crushed his heart like a fucking useless beer can, was too much. Mickey hadn’t set foot on North Wallace for almost two years. He turned down Ian’s invitations to his house and whenever he fucking missed him, he invited Ian over instead.

If he really wanted to be in a relationship with Ian again, waiting for time to heal his wounds or whatever the fuck just wasn’t enough. It was time to start trying to get over all the fucking hurt that was piled up inside him like armour, so new memories could overwrite the old ugly ones. He knew that Ian was trying to mend things, but so far all Mickey had done was sit around waiting to feel better, while he avoided talking or thinking about the hurtful stuff. Avoidance tactics had served him well in life until now, until all the Ian bullshit had come crashing down on him at literally the worst fucking time. He was going to have to start facing up to his fucking issues with Ian instead of avoiding them all together like some pussy little bitch.

Mickey cracked open another beer, sculling a large mouthful. He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, letting all manner of thoughts of red hair and green eyes and freckles dance around in his mind. 

* * *

Ian was sprawled on the Gallagher front porch, headphones in his ears listening to music to distract him from his thoughts. It was stifling hot inside because they hadn’t been able to afford air conditioning this summer, or any summer that he could remember, so being outside in the gentle breeze with the sun dwindling on the horizon would have been enjoyable if not for the fact he missed Mickey so much. It had been ten long days since he’d last seen him. 

Four songs had passed through his ears before Ian realised he hadn’t been paying any attention. _So much for the distraction._ He was debating whether or not to walk over to Mickey’s house and end the stalemate they had found themselves in, once and for all. It had taken them almost two years to find their way back to each other but now ten days without Mickey was about as much as Ian could handle.

He yanked his headphones from his ears and leaned back against the porch, taking in the sounds of the Southside which would have been scary to most, but were strangely comforting having grown up there. He made the decision to wait one more hour and then visit Mickey. That would give Mickey enough time to eat dinner and hang out with Yevgeny before they put the toddler to bed. Ian smiled as a peaceful feeling washed over him now that he’d actually made a decision. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to finally relax for the first time in over a week.

* * *

“Hey,” Mickey said hesitantly from the footpath. Of fucking course the first time in two years that he ventured back to Ian’s house, he would be sitting outside it. Just like the last time. Because that’s how Mickey’s life worked. He almost laughed.

Ian opened his eyes and shot forward into a sitting position. He could feel his face reacting in an expression of delight and relief and wondered briefly if he was hallucinating. 

“Mick.. hey,” he said, eyeing Mickey’s arms wantonly as he stood there in his purple plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off. Ian forced himself to stop staring. 

“You okay, man?” Mickey asked, kicking awkwardly at the concrete. 

Ian nodded, solemnly. The space between them felt uncomfortable and strained. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way around Mickey and he hated it.

“I’m sorry I’ve been..” Mickey started but his voice trailed away, unsure how to finish. Moping like a little bitch. Avoiding you. 

“It’s okay,” Ian said quietly, fidgeting with a hole in the knee of his jeans. “I'd invite you inside but there's nothing to do. We don't have a tv.”

Mickey shook his head quickly. “Ain't in the mood to deal with a gaggle of Gallaghers right now,” he said decidedly, folding his arms across his chest. “Only wanna see you.”

Ian huffed out a reluctant laugh. “A gaggle of Gallaghers,” he repeated. “Is that the official term?”

“For a group of your kind, yeah,” Mickey nodded, his lips pulled into a playful smirk.

Ian grinned, considering this. “What about a group of a Milkoviches then? What’s that? Besides trouble, of course. A murder?”

“A fuckin’ pride,” Mickey snorted, watching the smile enveloping Ian’s face. He was happy to be the source of it. “Strong and fearsome. Kings of the fuckin’ Southside.”

They started laughing, the uncomfortable atmosphere melting away under the warmth of their banter. Their playful back and forth always came naturally to them and neither of them had experienced it with such ease with anyone else.

“Wanna go somewhere?” Mickey asked, waving the remaining three beers from his six pack around in front of him. “We need to fuckin’ talk about some shit or whatever.”

“Okay,” Ian agreed, with a nod.

* * *

“So, um, about the other night-,” Ian began, as they were laying down in the middle of the baseball field, looking up at the sky, the grass cool and soft against their bodies. 

Mickey laughed nervously and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. That,” he agreed.

Ian inhaled slowly, then released his breath as a long, deep sigh. “I’m sorry, Mick. I know.. I shouldn’t have.. you know, pushed you-.”

“You didn’t, ay. It’s no one’s fault,” Mickey interrupted him with a shake of his head against the ground.

“But, I feel guilty. I just thought.. I assumed you-,” Ian stammered, running his hand through his hair. “I wanted it, so I assumed you did and-.”

“Will you shut the fuck up for one second,” Mickey growled. “It ain’t nobody’s fault.” He thought about what Svetlana had said to him; _everything is always about Ian._ The fucking bitch was right.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

Mickey turned over on his side so he could look at Ian. He rested his hand on Ian’s stomach. “Told ya I needed time, right,” Mickey began, “But I never said why.” Mickey felt Ian’s abs twitch beneath his fingers. Damn, that felt nice.

Ian hummed, waiting for Mickey to continue.

“I ain’t bringin’ this shit up to make you feel bad or nothin’,” Mickey started, squeezing his eyes shut tightly for a second, while he concentrated on what he was trying to say. “But I still feel pretty hurt. By everything that happened. I wanna be honest with you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mickey sighed, knowing the next words out of his mouth had the potential to blow up in his face. “I been thinkin’ this week.. about what I want,” he began. “And I wanna be a couple again, or whatever. I want that. I do. But going from fuckin’ cuddling to almost bangin’.. it was too much, ay.”

“Yeah,” Ian said breathily. He stared up at the sky wishing he could take back that conversation, if it could be called that, on his front porch steps two years ago. He’d give anything to take away Mickey’s pain.

“It’s just somethin’ that happened,” Mickey repeated.

Ian rolled on his side so they were face to face and Mickey let his hand slide over Ian resting it on his waist. Ian closed his eyes and felt himself lean into the touch. “I get it, Mick,” he nodded. “I won’t hit on you again or anything. When you want to.. I mean, if you want to, _you know_.. if you want to get back together properly, it’s up to you. Just tell me.”

Mickey nodded. “I never got close to anyone like we were.. like we are, not even Mands,” he continued, absently. “Fucked me up when it all went to shit. And I know I gotta get over it.. it’s just hard.”

“I.. I won’t hurt you ever again, Mick,” Ian said quietly. He’d had no idea how deep Mickey’s wounds were until now. The wounds he’d caused. “You can trust me.”

Mickey sighed, sliding his hand under Ian's tshirt. It felt easier to open up to him if he was touching him, like they were connected more than just physically. “It’s hard to stop thinkin’ about the bad shit, ay,” he mused. “But I will. Just dunno how long it’s gonna take, man.”

Ian shrugged, looking directly into Mickey’s blue eyes. He was so fucking beautiful. “It takes however long it takes.”

Mickey nodded, swallowing thickly as his stomach somersaulted in a very pleasant and very gay fashion. “Don’t wanna keep you waitin’ though.”

“I don’t care about that,” Ian said quickly, dismissing the idea with a shake of his head. “I just want to be in your life.”

Mickey let out a shaky breath, part lust, part sheer fucking relief. This conversation had gone so much better than he’d imagined. “So will you? Wait?” he asked.

“I’ll wait, Mick,” Ian promised, feeling the threat of tears burning behind his eyes. “You being in my life is the best part of my life.”

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed. He didn’t know what to say. It was funny how the sappy shit that used to irritate the hell out of him now made him almost weak at the fucking knees. He was so fucking gay, and yet somehow he still managed to be surprised by this fact. 

Ian had rendered him speechless, so Mickey leaned towards him, using his mouth for another purpose, pressing his lips against Ian’s and kissing him, short and sweet.

* * *

“I need to go upstairs real quick and get my night time meds, then we’ll go to your place,” Ian said as he and Mickey walked up the Gallagher back steps. 

“Ay, maybe you could keep some spare pills and shit at my joint,” Mickey suggested and Ian’s heart fluttered at the proposal. “Save havin’ to plan ahead all the time.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Ian said with a nod, his voice cracking from the wave of pleasant emotion surging through him. It seemed like a logical suggestion from the outside, but he knew what it actually was; it was Mickey’s way of showing him he was serious about letting Ian back into his life. 

They opened the back door and walked into the kitchen, both of them coming to an abrupt stop as they took in the scene that met them. Fiona was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, hair messy. The table was covered in papers, which Ian could tell were bills. Some of them were his therapy bills. A calculator sat in the middle of the table, next to the squirrel fund jar, which was empty. This wasn’t good. Couldn’t be good. Ian took a deep breath and prepared himself for the shitshow that was about to unfold.

“Ian,” Fiona said lifting her head up, but focusing on a spot on the table, not meeting Ian’s eyes.

“Fi, what is it?”

“They took it.”

“Who?” Ian asked, although he was sure he already knew the answer. He took a step towards his sister.

“One or both of our fucking parents,” she replied, looking up at him with red, swollen eyes. “Frank or Monica. The squirrel fund.”

“Fuck,” Mickey muttered under his breath.

Ian shook his head, slowly, in disgust. He could count on his hands the times he’d seen his oldest sister cry. He remembered how stricken he had felt when they were younger, before Debs and Carl were even born, and Fiona had cried a few times in front of him and Lip. Fiona was their rock, and to see her cry had set off a dramatic chain reaction of tears, first from Ian and then Lip. Ian couldn’t recall Fiona crying too many times after that. He’d seen her frustrated, angry, and harried, but seeing her in tears was not something he was used to. He didn’t want to be used to it. 

“It was a really poor squirrel fund this year, but it was still somethin,’” Fiona said, sighing. She glanced at Mickey, surprised to see him, but making no effort to hide how upset she was and the fact that she had been crying.

“Do you think they took it because of.. when I.. what I did.. to Frank?”

Fiona paused for a second and then replied, “Nah.”

But Ian wasn’t convinced. Fiona was probably thinking the exact same thing that he was; that Frank and Monica had taken the money out of spite. This was undoubtedly Frank’s doing. He would have been the only one out of the pair of them with enough persistence to look for the money and follow the idea to its logical conclusion. Monica would have thought it was a good plan for an hour or so, but the fire would have burned out quickly.

“I’m sorry,” Ian said. “I’m so sorry, Fiona.” Ian felt Mickey’s hand slide underneath his tshirt and start rubbing the small of his back in a soothing motion. He wanted to turn around and let Mickey hold him, but Fiona needed him right now. Ian had to be strong for her.

“Carl and Debbie are gonna have to get jobs, like tomorrow,” Fiona started, wiping her eyes and smoothing down the hairs that had broken free from her ponytail. She was in problem solving mode now. “They’re just gonna have to like it. Fuck, we had jobs when we were their age. It won’t kill ‘em. It’s not like they’ll be missin’ anything on TV.”

“How much was stolen?” Ian asked.

“About three and a half grand,” Fiona said, placing her hands on her hips. “ _Our_ fucking three and a half grand.”

“Fuck,” Ian muttered, palming at his forehead. He thought of all those double shifts at the diner, all that tedious, boring work he had done to earn money that had gone straight into the squirrel fund. All for nothing. 

“Jesus christ,” Mickey said quietly. 

“And how much do we need to get through winter?” Ian asked, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

“We’ve gotten through okay before with eight grand,” Fiona said. “And that was when Lip was here. We don’t have to feed him now, and if Debbie and Carl get jobs… I’m thinkin’ six grand? We’d probably do okay.”

“My medication, though?”

“Yeah, there’s that. But I really think we can do it with six.” Fiona nodded and smiled her wide smile that used to work to placate her siblings when they were younger. But there really wasn’t anything to smile about just yet; they might be able to get by with six grand to last the winter, but they still had to figure out a way to get it. 

“Have you told Lip?” Ian asked and Mickey snorted in annoyance.

“Nah, thought I'd allow him one night of peace.”

“Don't tell him. Not yet, anyway. Let's see if we can figure this out first,” Ian said, nodding in encouragement.

“Okay,” Fiona quickly agreed. “Jesus, it’s not like I can even flirt with diner customers for tips anymore. Fuckin’ assistant manager job.”

Ian regrettably moved away from Mickey’s touch and enveloped his sister in a hug. He was sure they’d hugged more in the last couple of months than they had in the last five years. Ian could live without the events that had preceded their recent hugs, but he was enjoying feeling closer to Fiona again. He felt more like her brother and less like her patient.

“Your meds are important, Ian,” Fiona said against Ian’s shoulder, her voice muffled by his tshirt. She looked up and over Ian’s shoulder, making eye contact with Mickey in an attempt to instill her next words into him too. “Keep takin’ them as you’re meant to. Don’t go breakin’ them in half or anythin’ stupid like that, okay?”

Mickey folded his arms across his chest and nodded at Fiona. Understood.

“We’ll get through this. I'll find a job for Carl, for starters. I’ll look after us, Fi,” Ian promised, holding his sister tight, reluctant to let her go.

“Thanks, sweetface,” she said, breaking free from the hug and smiling at her brother. “We’ll be okay. We’re fucking Gallaghers.”

Once upstairs, Ian sank down on his small, childhood bed and closed his eyes, sighing. Mickey joined him, balancing precariously on the edge of the mattress.

“Your fuckin’ parents, man,” Mickey muttered in disgust, shaking his head.

“I know,” Ian groaned. He would have laughed if he wasn’t so angry. It was a pretty strong indictment of Frank and Monica’s parenting when even a Milkovich was shocked. “I don’t think I feel like staying at your place tonight, Mick. I’m sorry. I know I said I would.”

“S’okay,” Mickey said quietly, idly running his fingers through Ian’s hair. “We’ll stay here.”

“You’ll stay?” Ian felt the corners of his mouth threatening to break into a smile, despite the heavy weight of the unhappiness he was feeling.

Mickey nodded. “Yep.” There was no way he was leaving Ian on his own tonight. Especially not after the last time Ian had needed him, and he’d pussied out. 

“I need to work out how to fix this mess,” Ian said vaguely, staring up at the ceiling. “Fuck, I wish they’d just leave us alone. Frank and Monica, they’re like fucking termites.” He reluctantly removed himself from the snug space he’d carved out for himself next to Mickey, to take his meds and change, ready for bed. 

Mickey remained on Ian’s bed, chewing on his lip, deep in thought. His mind was already swimming with ideas of how to get the money back. And if he was honest, he was also thinking about all the different things he’d like to do to fucking Frank. Mickey was tempted to go out looking for Frank right now, but he really couldn’t leave Ian. He should have kicked Frank’s skinny arse after he’d beat on Ian the other week. Fucking arsehole had it coming. 

As far as Mickey was concerned, Frank Gallagher was fair game now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for references to canonical rape.
> 
> \-----
> 
> I uploaded this one a bit later than I had intended, sorry! I got a bit distracted this past week with #noelwatch !
> 
> And yes, I did use a small bit of the dialogue from the 666x01 prison scene (Will you? Wait?) and the general concept of the conversation, because I watched the scene again before I finished this chapter and I needed to do something to heal my heart.
> 
> Now our two heroes seem to be sorta, kinda, maybe on the same page as far as their feelings go.. anything is possible from here on in :)
> 
> PS. Shameless 7 starts really soon and I still don't know if I'm going to watch it or not. 
> 
> Hit me up on Tumblr: radiatingsuburbanangst.tumblr.com


	14. Old Tricks

Ian took a deep breath and walked into the cafe on the corner of Nate’s street in Lakeview. He smirked at the name of the place; _Alt Java_. It was so very un-Southside. Inside, the cafe smelled amazing, like freshly roasted coffee beans and cupcakes and all manner of baked goods. In other words, it smelled a lot better than the diner. The interior of the place reminded him of Nate’s apartment; all perfectly curated wooden floors and exposed industrial lighting, with weathered brick walls and tables and chairs that looked vintage but were probably made in a factory somewhere and purchased at a premium. In the background, Ian could hear jazz music being played at just the right volume to feel ambient without making it impossible to hold a conversation. Sitting at the tables were customers with their laptops open - nice laptops, those silver ones - typing away leisurely at their keys. Some were sitting together immersed in quiet conversations. 

There was a large display cabinet full of sandwiches and sweets adjacent to the entrance; macarons and muffins and slices of cake that were so perfect they almost didn’t look real. Behind the counter, young people, probably college students, were busy preparing coffees and taking orders. He figured that was probably what he would be doing.

Ian had to admit this place was nice. Almost too nice. He had spent a fair chunk of his time on the Northside, at Boystown or hanging out with Nate, but part of him always felt a tiny bit out of place. He didn't look Southside but he could never completely shake the feeling that he was an imposter; someone pretending to be something they weren’t. As though the Southside grime was somehow still obvious no matter how many times he tried to wash it away. And now, standing inside this cafe, about to try and talk his way into a job his ex-boyfriend had set up for him, he felt something else too; he felt defeated. 

He hadn’t wanted to come here and ask for the job because he hated accepting help under the best of circumstances, and accepting help from his ex-boyfriend, left a bad taste in his mouth. But, he had Frank and Monica for parents and bipolar disorder and a laundry list of prescriptions that he needed to fill. The second he had seen Fiona’s tear stained face the night she discovered the squirrel fund had been stolen, Ian had known that he had to take this job, that the time for being stubborn was over. Maybe the stress of new people and new skills and a new routine would be too much for his mental health. But couldn't afford not to take the chance now. Literally and figuratively. Monica and Frank had forced his hand.

He approached the counter and cleared his throat nervously. A pretty girl with bleach blonde hair, lilac streaks and a nose ring appeared at the counter waiting to serve him.

“Welcome to Alt Java. My name is Jez. How can I help you today?” she said, pressing some buttons on the register in preparation for the order she thought she would be taking.

Ian cleared his throat, nervously. “Um, Hi,” he began. “I would like to speak to the manager, please.. Andrew?”

“Sure thing,” Jez replied, perkily, as she made her way to a door at the end of the store marked _Staff_. “Who should I say is waiting?”

“Ian Gallagher. Thanks so much.” Ian watched Jez disappear out the staff door. He shifted his weight nervously between his feet as he waited for his ex-boyfriend’s old friend to appear. The wait gave his brain time to remind him of the awkwardness of the entire situation and he shuddered uncomfortably.

The staff door swung open and Jez reappeared, returning to her post at the counter and serving another customer.

“Ian?” A male poked his head around the door and Ian recognised him as Nate’s friend Andrew. He gestured for Ian to follow him. “Come through.”

He followed Andrew down a dingy hallway that seemed at odds with the rest of the establishment. Andrew opened another door and ushered Ian into a tiny space, barely larger than a broom closet, lined wall to wall with papers and folders, neatly folded uniforms, and paper coffee cups. Jutting out from one wall into the centre of the room was a small desk with a laptop, which was the only item in the room that gave away that this was an office, instead of a storage space.

“What can I do for you, Ian?” Andrew asked, leaning against the edge of his desk.

“Hi.. I’m Nate’s..” Ian’s voice trailed off and he coughed, as if trying to force the words from his throat. “Nate’s friend.”

Andrew smiled. “Yeah, I thought so,” he said pleasantly, with a nod of recognition. “I remember you. We went out for drinks that time, yeah?”

Ian felt his cheeks warming uncomfortably in embarrassment. He rolled the employee agreement forms into a tube, absentmindedly with his hands, and nodded. “Um, so Nate told me that there was a job-.”

“You’re just in time, buddy,” Andrew said, quickly. “I thought you would have come in by now. I was about to start advertising externally.”

“Oh right.”

Andrew shook his head, reassuringly, as if to dismiss his previous statement. “All good, though,” he said, moving around behind his desk and shuffling at some papers. He looked up at Ian. “So, Nate said you worked in a.. diner?”

“I cleared tables, mostly,” Ian agreed. There was a brief silence and he felt more words start tumbling from his mouth to fill the quiet. “I waited tables sometimes. Took orders, worked the stockroom-.” 

“That’s fine,” Andrew shrugged, seeming distracted by the papers on his desk. He came across as one of those people who always seem busy and preoccupied. “You’ll be learning on the job, anyway. I’ll pair you up with Jezzy and you can shadow her for a few weeks. She’ll show you how to use the coffee machine and the register.”

“Okay,” Ian said, quietly. He could hardly believe this was happening, that he had fallen arse backwards into a job he had absolutely no experience for and was about to quit working at the diner. 

Andrew gave up rummaging through the papers on his desk, instead turning his attention to the shelves behind his desk. He eventually turned back to face Ian, a thick ringed folder in his hands. 

“Here’s our book of secrets,” he said, passing the folder over to Ian. “This book basically explains the recipes for our speciality drinks. All the ingredients are precisely measured so take it home and study it.”

Ian nodded, obediently. “Okay, will do.”

“And.. you’ll need a uniform,” Andrew said, taking a step backwards and appraising Ian for a split second longer than Ian deemed comfortable. Andrew turned to the shelves again and grabbed a black t-shirt and apron with the Alt Java logo on it. 

Ian silently took the uniform from Andrew, as his new boss continued talking. 

“For bottoms, we go with a pair of slim leg or skinny black jeans,” he explained. “And for footwear, we wear something black.”

“Got it,” Ian said quickly, before Andrew started talking again.

“You’ll notice that all our staff are wearing black boots with a decent sole,” Andrew continued, moving out from behind the desk to show Ian his own boots. “This is for O H and S reasons. The soles need to have some grip so you don’t fall over and sue us.”

Ian nodded. “Right.” His head was spinning and he marveled at how different this cafe was to the diner. Ian was pretty sure the diner didn’t give a damn about occupational health and safety; they were just relieved if you showed up fully clothed and sober.

Andrew made a sudden move towards the open door and closed it quickly. Ian furrowed his brow in confusion.

“So, Nate mentioned you’re bipolar,” Andrew said quietly, lowering his voice secretively.

Ian felt his body stiffen and the skin at the back of his neck prickled. Of course Nate fucking _mentioned_ it. Everyone at the diner had known he was bipolar and his co-workers here probably would too, now. Ian cursed the dark, black shadow of mental illness that followed him around. He took a deep breath and paused briefly, willing himself against saying something he would live to regret. 

“I am,” Ian nodded. “But I have it under control. I’m managing it. It’s fine.” He cringed internally as he listened to his own desperate justifications.

Andrew waved his hand dismissively. “That’s okay,” he smiled. “I only brought it up because Nate said you might need to take time off for medical appointments.”

Ian fought the urge to roll his eyes. Fucking Nate didn’t know shit. “Well, maybe,” he conceded. “But any of your employees may need to take time off for medical appointments.”

Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fair enough. You’re absolutely right.” When Ian chose not to respond, he changed the subject. “So how is Nate, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Ian felt a sudden sinking in his stomach, as though a brick had been dropped inside him. “Oh um..” he stammered. “He’s… he’s… good?” 

“That’s great,” Andrew smiled, seemingly oblivious to Ian’s awkward reaction. “We should all go out for dinner together soon, yeah?”

“Yeah, um.. sure,” Ian said quietly, trying desperately to keep his emotions from his face. He hadn’t started work yet and he was already lying to his boss. Nice going.

“So when can you start?”

* * *

Mickey’s job was good for a lot of things; satisfying his parole, a regular paycheck, health insurance. All that upstanding citizen kinda shit. And apparently driving a van around Chicago made it all the more easy for him to track down Frank Gallagher. It’s not like he was looking for the guy or anything, but if he happened to see him walking down the street, well, Mickey wasn’t exactly going to turn around. And driving down a sidestreet near The Alibi, Mickey just happened to see him.

Mickey turned the steering wheel towards the kerb and slammed the breaks on in the van, coming to an awkward stop at the side of the road. He jumped out the driver side door, leaving the keys dangling in the ignition and the door open. He was fucked if someone decided to steal the van, but he was too focused on Frank Gallagher to give a shit.

“Yo, Gallagher!” he yelled out, as he swaggered casually after the skinny old fuck.

Frank turned around, swaying unsteadily on his feet. He turned his head towards the direction of Mickey’s voice.

“Ay, Frank!” Mickey yelled out again and watched as Frank’s eyes finally fell upon him. Mickey made a fist and slammed it into the palm of his left hand, taunting him. “Got somethin’ for ya!”

Mickey laughed out loud as Frank took off, running with a lumbering, drunken gait. “Yeah, you better fuckin’ run!” he yelled and pursued Frank at a leisurely pace. No point wasting energy sprinting after him when he didn’t need to. Mickey caught Frank without too much effort and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, dragging him into an alley. It was so fucking easy, Mickey almost felt guilty. Almost.

“Doesn’t South.. Southside’s little gay bulldog have a def.. defenseless little old.. lady to mug?” Frank slurred, as Mickey slammed him up against the brick wall of the alleyway. 

“Clever. You thinka that one all by yourself?” he snarled. Mickey cringed as Frank’s sour alcohol infused breath made its way into his nostrils. The man reeked. He released his grip on Frank slightly, and he moved away from the wall in an attempt to flee. In one swift movement, Mickey shot forward, headbutting him violently. 

“That’s for Ian.”

Frank stumbled awkwardly, veering sideways, tripping over some garbage bins and clutching at his now bleeding nose. Mickey followed him, patting him down in a frisk. He fisted the collar of Frank’s shirt in one hand and removed Frank’s wallet with the other. He fumbled awkwardly through the wallet. Five hundred bucks. And a Dunkin Donuts Voucher. _What the fuck?_

“This all ya got left?” Mickey growled, waving the money in Frank’s face. “Fuckin’ piece of shit.”

Mickey threw the wallet on the ground, pocketing the cash and the voucher. Frank’s mouth was moving, wet, garbled moans escaping his lips. Gripping Frank’s shoulder, Mickey kneed the old bastard unceremoniously in the balls. 

“That’s for stealin’ from your fuckin’ family.” He smirked as Frank keeled over, landing on the cold, filthy cement with a pathetic groan. 

“And this is a fuckin’ warning,” Mickey yelled, kicking Frank in the stomach. “You touch any of those kids, steal any of their shit or go anywhere near Ian again and I will end you.”

Frank groaned again from the cement at Mickey’s feet. Mickey knew he should probably feel guilty or ashamed but he didn’t. If he was honest, he felt fucking fantastic. It had been so long since he’d even allowed himself to think about issuing a beat down, that the release felt beautiful. Magical, even. His fists were tingling at the thought of pounding mercilessly into Frank’s face. So he leaned over and did just that. The rough, sharp scraping of the drunken man’s stubble against Mickey’s knuckles as his fist made impact over and over, was transformative. He felt alive.

Ignoring Frank’s gurgled protests, Mickey grabbed the man by his collar, pulling his head up so he could sneer directly into his face. “I already been on the inside and I don’t give a shit. Free meals, board, roof over my head. It’s a fuckin’ holiday,” he lied. “You know what happened to your other fuckin’ daughter? That ain’t nothin’. I’d do it all again tomorrow, if it means Ian don’t gotta deal with your drunken arse. Watch yourself.”

Mickey stood up and looked around the alley. With no one around to witness it, he kicked Frank in the stomach one final time. 

“And that’s because I’ve always fuckin’ wanted to.”

Frank groaned and writhed on the ground, muttering incoherently, which Mickey took as a reassuring sign that he was still alive at least. He rubbed the sweat off his brow and swaggered back to the van which was waiting for him exactly as he left it. He patted his pocket where he had stowed the five hundred bucks. It wasn’t anywhere near enough. Mickey was going to have to think of another way of getting the Gallaghers’ cash back.

But first things first. Mickey had worked up an appetite. He put the van into reverse, completed a three point turn and drove off in the direction of Dunkin’ Donuts. He was in the mood for a waffle sandwich.

* * *

Mickey sat on the El that night, his knuckles tender and bruising nicely after his run in with Frank Gallagher. Tom was sitting opposite him. Mickey hadn’t cared enough to ask why Tom was on the Southside El; he’d been looking forward to his peaceful, silent train ride back home when Tom had caught up to him, walking with him to wait for the El and then taken the seat opposite.

“That’s an interesting bruise you’ve got going on there,” Tom said blithely, gesturing to Mickey’s FUCK hand.

Mickey grunted. This guy sure liked to ask a lot of fucking questions. He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “Walked into a door,” he muttered.

Tom smirked his disbelief. “Right,” he said, his tone mocking. “Haven’t been beating up on our customers have you?”

Mickey tore his eyes away from the window, staring Tom down with a raised eyebrow. “You really think I’m that fuckin’ stupid?”

Tom laughed and lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I never said you were stupid,” he replied, his voice light and laced with humour.

Mickey snorted. “Well, wouldn’t I have to be?” Tom’s apparent immunity to Mickey’s intimidation was really starting to piss him the fuck off.

“I guess,” Tom said, shrugging with irritating nonchalance. He continued to look directly at Mickey expectantly, his brown eyes locked with Mickey's blue.

“Fuck,” Mickey muttered, pinching his nose between his eyes in frustration. Only the truth was going to get this guy off his back. Tom’s persistence reminded him of Ian. A less pretty version of him, but Ian no less. “Collected a debt. Comes with the fuckin’ territory.”

“Really?” Tom gasped, finally seeming rattled. His eyes were wide and bright with curiosity. “Shit.”

Mickey shook his head and smirked. “You think these,” he started, fisting his hands and displaying his FUCK U-UP tattoos in front of Tom’s face, “are just there for fuckin’ decoration?”

“I don’t know,” Tom replied, meekly, with a shrug. “I’ve never met anyone with knuckle tattoos before.”

Mickey laughed in spite of himself, feeling a perverse sense of pride at Tom’s discomfort. “What the fuck you on an El to the Southside for anyways?”

“I live in Hyde Park,” Tom offered. “My car is in the shop.”

“Hyde Park, huh,” Mickey repeated with a knowing smirk. “Home of our nation’s president.”

“Born and raised. You?”

Mickey stretched out an arm and cracked his elbow. “Canaryville,” he replied. “That’s the real fuckin’ Southside for ya.”

Tom smiled and rolled his eyes, playfully. “You win. You're definitely far more street than me.”

“Yeah, you don't say.” Mickey laughed cynically, as a reluctant smile crept across his face. This guy. What a fucking smart arse.

* * *

Mandy opened her eyes, squinting as the early morning sunlight prodded at her face unsympathetically through the cracks in the window. She blinked, and looked around the unfamiliar room, trying to retrace her steps and piece together the night before. The guy laying next to her was snoring and drooling into his pillow. Mandy stared at him, trying to remember his name. It began with a D, perhaps. David? Daniel, maybe. Whatever. He looked like a douchebag, and she never wanted to see him again anyway.

She climbed out of the bed as silently as she could, trying to remain undetected. There was no way she wanted to wake this guy and be forced into a conversation with him. Especially if she couldn’t even remember his name. What a fucking cliche that would be. She dressed quickly and crept into the living room of this strange apartment. The scene there brought parts of the night flooding back to her in vivid, nauseating detail. Empty bottles of tequila, vodka, beer and the occasional mirror and rolled up dollar bill littered almost every surface. Mandy groaned, feeling the comedown from the night before pulsating rhythmically inside her head.

Creeping towards the front door of the apartment, Mandy noticed a small baggie of white powder sitting out on the kitchen bench. She looked around, making sure no one was watching and pocketed the coke, with a sly grin. Opening the door slowly and quietly, she left the apartment before the fragmented memories dancing around in her head reassembled themselves and she would be forced to deal with a sea of regrets. 

Once out on the street, Mandy still had no idea where she was, resorting instead to using the GPS on her phone to pinpoint her exact location. Wicker Park. How the fuck did she end up there? She dismissed that question with a shrug of her shoulders and reluctantly walked in the direction her phone told her she needed to go to catch an El back to Canaryville. As she walked, her mind started rehashing the conversation she had heard between Mickey and Svetlana and she was reminded again why she had spent precious little time back at home over the past few weeks. Sure, she was acting out, using sex and drugs and alcohol to try and soothe herself, just like Mickey would. But she didn’t know what the fuck else to do. The only thing Mandy knew for sure was that a very fucked up thing had happened to her brother, and there was a chance she could have prevented it. The thought sickened her and she had no idea how she was supposed to live with the knowledge. She would tell anyone else that they needed to talk about it, but that advice was easy to give. It has alot harder for a Milkovich to follow it, especially when it meant she had to talk to Mickey. They’d both grown up a bit since she’d been gone but having a deep and meaningful, or a heart to heart, was still mostly uncharted territory for them. 

Unless one or both of them were drunk, that is.

* * *

“That ex-boyfriend of yours gonna be a problem at this job?” Mickey asked Ian casually, as they walked down the steps from the El station and continued onto the street below.

Ian smirked at Mickey’s attempt to hide his jealousy. “Nah, I actually don’t think he goes there much,” he admitted. “The boss - _my_ boss - hadn't seen him in ages.”

Mickey hummed, trying not to imagine punching Ian’s ex-boyfriend in his fucking Northside face. “When you start workin’ there then?”

“Next week,” Ian replied, checking the date on his phone. “I have to finish up a few shifts at the diner first. Couldn’t leave Fi in the lurch.”

“Do I get a discount on coffee?” Mickey nudged Ian in the ribs, playfully. 

Ian laughed. “Maybe,” he said coyly, returning Mickey’s nudge, inadvertently pushing him off the pavement. “If you tell me where we’re going right now?”

Mickey had shown up at the Gallagher house, with five hundred dollars for the squirrel fund, and demanded Ian follow him to South Loop for some reason. Ian had no idea what his plan was, and he could tell Mickey was enjoying watching him squirm. But even with this knowledge, Ian couldn’t stop himself from asking, trying to prise as many details out of Mickey as possible. The not knowing was driving him insane.

Mickey snorted a laugh, stealing a sideways glance at Ian’s frustrated face. “Told ya man, got an errand to run.”

“Yeah, because that’s not vague at all,” Ian huffed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Gotta pick up some dry cleaning,” Mickey laughed.

“Can’t help thinking that’s a euphemism for something illegal,” Ian muttered, his brow furrowing in concentration. “What do you own that’s even worth dry cleaning?”

Mickey snorted. Gallagher was such a fucking smart arse. “At this fuckin’ fancy restaurant last week, man,” he revealed casually. “Fuckin’ Northside prick of a waiter spilled red wine all over my best suit.”

Ian almost tripped over his own feet in surprise. _Mickey was at a fancy restaurant_. _Mickey was at a fancy restaurant wearing a suit_. “W-what?”

Mickey laughed, revelling in this rare opportunity to make Ian jealous.

Ian cleared his throat. “Where did you go?” he asked, trying to play it cool despite the pangs of jealousy stabbing him in his chest. “Was it a work thing? I mean.. who did you go with?”

Mickey laughed once more and threw a friendly arm around Ian’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Relax, man, aight?” he said softly. “You really think I’d go to some fancy fuckin’ restaurant without your ginger arse?”

“Maybe,” Ian shrugged haughtily.

“Well I didn’t.”

“Okay,” Ian conceded, “but, none of this is making any sense, Mick.”

Mickey sighed in exaggerated annoyance. “You want your fuckin’ rodent fund back or what?”

“Squirrel fund,” Ian corrected him. “Yeah.. I guess. I mean, yes.”

“Then trust me.”

Ian frowned, knowing he wasn’t going to get any more information out of Mickey until he felt like sharing it. “I feel like that’s what people say right before everyone gets arrested,” he muttered and Mickey just laughed.

* * *

Ian eyed the suit hanging inside the plastic bag they had picked up from the dry cleaner with suspicious eyes, as Mickey continued to lead them on their mystery tour of South Loop. Ian’s curious gaze worked its way down to the cuffs of the sleeves which were poking out of the bag, and he cursed, instantly recognising the familiar gold buttons.

“Hey! This is my Army Service Uniform!” he exclaimed, stopping abruptly in the street, staring accusingly at Mickey. “What the fuck, Mick?”

Mickey shrugged. “All good, man,” he said casually. “Spilled some Ribena on it, ay. Made sure they cleaned it up real nice.”

Ian felt his chin react in stubborn annoyance. It wasn’t funny anymore. He couldn’t understand what use Mickey would have with his Army uniform that would cause it to meet its fate with Ribena. But he wasn’t going to give Mickey the satisfaction of his curiosity anymore. Ian stayed quiet.

They continued walking in silence, Mickey leading them to a copy store where Ian watched in confused disbelief as he made four hundred copies of both the dry cleaning receipt and a printed note that he pulled out of his pocket. 

“Now we just need four hundred postage stamps and a shit tonne of envelopes,” Mickey said, with a smirk.

Ian shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Back at the Milkovich house, Mickey revealed his plan as they sat at the kitchen table with Mandy.

“We send four hundred letters with receipts to some real fancy Northside restaurants, tellin’ ‘em they owe us for dry cleaning cos one of their useless waiters spilled shit on an expensive suit,” Mickey explained, enjoying his captive audience. “Then they mail fifty bucks to our drop box, cos it ain’t worth their reputation to ignore it.”

“No one is going to fall for that,” Mandy groused, kicking Ian under the table to grab his attention and rolling her eyes at him.

“That’s why we’re sending out four hundred fuckin’ letters,” Mickey said derisively. “Only gotta get a ten percent strike rate and the fuckin’ rodent fund is almost paid back.”

Ian hummed. It wasn’t the most ingenious idea that Mickey had ever had. But it was so ridiculous that it might actually work. “It’s worth a shot, I guess,” he said with a shrug.

Mandy groaned, burying her head in her hands. “And we have to address four hundred fucking envelopes?” she muttered. “Fuck, Mickey. Next time you need money, can’t you go and rob a fucking bank or something, like a true Milkovich?”

“Fucksake! I’m tryin’ to stay out of prison,” Mickey was on the verge of yelling. “Couldn’t think of nothin’ else that weren’t a felony.”

“I think this would be considered fraud,” Ian mused. “You’ll probably just end up in minimum security this time,” he added with a sarcastic grin. “You might even enjoy it.”

Mickey laughed, nudging Ian's knee under the table and running a hand through his hair. “This is a victimless crime, aight,” he said, nonchalantly. “So some fuckin’ high class Northside restaurants are down fifty bucks. Who gives a fuck? No one.”

“Oh what the fuck ever,” Mandy grumbled. “Let’s stop fucking around and just do this. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“It might even be fun,” Ian said lamely, unable to truly buy into his own optimism.

“It won’t be,” Mandy snapped and Ian laughed.

Mickey retrieved the ancient, clunky Milkovich family laptop from underneath the couch and they set to work finding addresses for four hundred restaurants situated on the Northside. Mandy complained the entire time, and Ian tried to break the enormous task down into smaller mini tasks so it seemed more achievable. They were two hundred envelopes in when Mickey decided he’d had enough and used his familiar excuse as the brainchild of the operation to shirk his responsibilities in favour of playing the X-Box instead. Fucking typical.

It was after ten at night when Ian and Mandy had finally finished the letters. As soon as they were finished, Mandy had disappeared into her room and resurfaced a few minutes later dressed and ready to go out.

“I’m off,” she said quickly, opening the front door before Ian or Mickey had the chance to say anything in reply. “See you losers later.”

Ian sat down on the couch and slumped against Mickey. “That was hard work,” he mumbled, feeling suddenly tired.

“C’mere,” Mickey said, leaning back on the couch and pulling Ian closer to him. Ian spread his lanky body out over the couch and rested his head against Mickey.

“I had it under control. You didn’t need to do any of this,” Ian said against Mickey’s chest.

Mickey ran his fingers through Ian’s hair, absentmindedly stroking at the cut that Frank had inflicted upon him. “Well for some fuckin’ reason I can’t stop myself giving a shit about you and every hot mess you find yourself in.”

“I don’t want you to fuck up your parole, Mick.”

Mickey bit down on his bottom lip. “I ain’t gonna, aight,” he said, tracing his fingers over Ian’s jaw. “You give more of a shit about this than any of the restaurants stuffin’ fifty bucks in an envelope. Guarantee it.”

Ian huffed. “I guess,” he acquiesced. He shifted slightly, propping himself up with an elbow so he was looking into Mickey’s eyes. “So what do we do now?”

“We stick ‘em in the mail,” Mickey said, kissing Ian’s forehead. “Then we wait.”

Ian felt himself break out in goosebumps from the pleasant touch of Mickey’s lips against his skin. “Your knuckles are really bruised,” he said quietly, catching a glimpse of Mickey’s fingers as they continued tracing his jaw. “You fought with Frank, didn’t you? That’s how you got the five hundred bucks.”

“Nah, Gallagher. We sat down over fuckin’ coffee and hashed it out like the gentleman we are,” Mickey said sarcastically with a laugh. “Course we got into it. I beat the fuckin’ shit out of him.”

“Fuck.”

Mickey pulled Ian towards him again, pressing his head down gently onto his chest. The Frank situation had been dealt with, the Gallaghers were five hundred bucks richer, and the last thing he wanted was to receive a lecture from Ian about how he should have left the man alone. It was problem fucking solved, as far as Mickey was concerned. 

“It’s okay. He won’t be bothering you for a long ass time,” Mickey said in an attempt to reassure Ian.

Ian hummed. “He’s alive though, right?” he said sleepily.

“Course he’s fuckin’ alive.” 

Ian whined and wriggled on top of Mickey childishly. “It’s completely fucked up how hot this is making me, right now, Mick.”

Mickey snorted, feeling the beginnings of a boner forming in his boxers. Fucking Gallagher. “You got fuckin’ daddy issues, man.”

Ian shook his head. “I think I’ve just got Mickey issues.”

Mickey didn’t say anything, instead he leaned forward and kissed Ian in his hair. He smelled like soap and something sweet that Mickey couldn’t place. He listened to Ian’s breathing, noticing when it slowed and each breath became deeper as the redhead succumbed to sleep against his chest. In an hour or so, he would wake Ian up so he could take his night time meds and they would both go to bed.

Mickey palmed nervously at his forehead. If Ian had _Mickey issues_ , there was no fucking question in Mickey’s mind that he himself had _Ian issues_. Because of Ian, Mickey had beaten someone within an inch of their life and hatched an elaborate scam in an attempt to defraud four hundred restaurants out of fifty bucks all within the space of a week. He was supposed to be walking the line. And he had been. Until he’d allowed himself to slide slowly back into Ian’s world, that is.

It scared Mickey to think of what he would do for Ian. But what terrified him even more was wondering whether there was anything he _wouldn’t_ do for Ian Gallagher. The extent of his devotion to Ian had never really been a problem before, when prison was just an abstract threat that had never really worried him. But he wasn't fucking kidding around when he told people he was never going back there. And when it came down to it, Ian was the reason he had been to prison in the first place. The trouble was, Mickey just didn't know how to love any other way. It was all or nothing with him. Balls to the fucking wall. Mickey stared blankly up at the ceiling, chewing on his lip and trying to push that annoying thought out of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took me a while to update! With all the spoilers coming out about Mickey returning to Shameless, the possibilities surrounding his return have been upsetting me and I wasn't in the right headspace to put the finishing touches on this chapter.
> 
> I am going on holiday this week so the next chapter will probably be up in two weeks.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	15. Walking the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next to him on the bedside table, his phone started ringing. Who the fuck was calling him at seven thirty in the fucking morning? Whoever it was could go fuck themselves. Mickey barely even wanted to be alive at this fucking hour, least of all on the phone to someone. He let his phone ring out, but a few minutes later it buzzed with a notification of a voicemail.
> 
> For fucksake. People never could take a hint. He dialed the number for voicemail and pressed his phone up to his ear.

“Order for Sarah,” Ian called out, setting down two take away cups of coffee onto the counter. Yelling people’s names out into the open space of the cafe was so far the hardest part of his job. Hearing his own voice, yelling out and interrupting people from their conversations definitely required some getting used to. He turned and deposited the remaining two drinks to the counter, took a deep breath and called out again. “Two skinny lattes and two skinny cappuccinos.”

Ian was enjoying his new job so much more than he had expected. Making coffees and serving customers wasn’t exactly rocket science but it was better than the diner and he found himself repeating that mantra to himself at least ten times a day. _This is so much better than the diner._ After the initial apprehension he had felt when he first accepted the job, marvelled at the fact that it had taken him so long to make the change at all. Starting everyday knowing that he was going to be doing something other than clearing tables on the South Side gave him a weird sort of purpose that he hadn’t felt in years. Even getting out of bed in the morning was easier now, and even though he didn’t need to work nearly as many hours as he had been at the diner, he found himself thinking that he probably wouldn’t mind if he did. 

He felt happier than he had in a long time but he sometimes felt guilty knowing that he had left Fiona behind at the diner, moving on to a new job that generally nicer and paid more. He had more free time than when he worked constant double shifts at Patsy’s which was nice, and was probably a good thing for his fucking mental health, but he worried about Fiona still slogging thanklessly away at the diner. If he was honest, the idea that he was earning more per hour, than Fiona, an assistant manager, that filled him with guilt. It didn’t seem fair, really. As frustrating as she could be to work with sometimes, Ian wished there was a job at the cafe for her, too. 

He wiped his hands on his apron and leaned against the preparation bench, taking a few seconds timeout., chewing absently on his lip as he realised he wasn’t sure if he’d used skinny milk in any of the drinks he’d made for the previous order. He felt like he was getting the hang of everything, but it was sometimes hard to concentrate, which in turn made it more difficult to remember small details. Ian knew he had his bipolar meds to thank for that. _Cognitive difficulties_ , they were so succinctly named in the pamphlet that came with his pills. Working at the diner had been so mundane and boring that he hadn’t really noticed before, but with new things to learn and having to keep up with the constant stream of orders, the cognitive side effects were definitely noticeable. 

Ian watched Jez delivering coffee to customers seated at tables in the window, with the ease and skill of someone who had been doing the job for a lot longer than he had. True to his word, Andrew had put the two of them together on the same shifts, with the intention of Jez showing Ian the ropes. Over the past few weeks, they had spent a lot of time working together. Jez’s name was actually Jessica, but everyone called her Jez or Jezzie and she was studying psychology at the University of Illinois. She was originally from Brookfield but lived with some friends in an apartment in West Town. Jez was one of those people who just seemed cool, no matter what, and Ian thought the nickname suited her. She had that attitude of _giving zero fucks_ and it reminded Ian of Mandy.

The order screen on the wall behind the counter flashed with another order and Ian set to work getting it ready. This one was for three of Alt Java’s _specialty drinks_ as Andrew liked to call them, and they were trickier to make than the usual latte, cappuccinos and espressos. There was a recipe to be followed to make the drinks with had flavours similar to ice cream varieties. It was a whole production, really. There was even a Snickers bar coffee, which always made Ian smile when someone ordered one, because it filled his head with thoughts of Mickey. 

Ian finished the order, and called out for the customer to come to the counter and collect it. He watched Jez as she made her way back to the counter and removed her apron, and draped it over the handle of the dishwasher. 

“Let’s take our lunch break, now,” Jez said, matter-of-fact. “Aaron and Casey took theirs earlier.”

Ian nodded, removing his own apron and gesturing for Casey who was wiping down the preparation bench, letting her know that another order was waiting in the system. He and Jez both grabbed salad sandwiches from the display case headed out the cafe entrance. They were allowed to eat whatever cafe food they wanted, with staff discount, so long as they kept a tab and paid it at the end of each week. 

They walked in silence to a small park a few minutes from their workplace where they had eaten lunch together, almost every day since Ian had started work.

“How’s it going today?” Jez asked, positioning herself cross-legged one of the park benches. “Keeping on top of everything, okay? We’ve been pretty busy.”

Ian nodded, but cringed when he remembered the issue with the skinny milk. He told Jez about it just in case it came back to bite him.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said with a laugh and a casual wave of her hand. “You’re doing well. I once used dairy instead of soy in every drink I made for an entire day. I woke up in the middle of the night realising what I'd done, imagining hundreds of lactose intolerant people puking everywhere.”

Ian laughed, feeling better about the mistakes he knew he’d made since he’d started.

Jez threw a piece of bread from the corner of her sandwich, at a hungry pigeon. “I was waiting for someone to come back and complain but they never did,” she continued, shrugging. “Probably blamed it on some bad sushi or something.”

“If they lived to tell the tale, that is,” Ian quipped, with a playful smirk. 

Jez slapped him lightly on the arm. “Geez, Louise!” She exclaimed. “That got morbid, fast. Death by dairy.”

They continued eating their lunch, talking about the cafe and their customers and laughing at their own jokes. Jez was easy to talk to and Ian felt felt comfortable around her, as though they had been friends for alot longer than three weeks.

“Hey, Ian,” Jez said, screwing up her empty sandwich bag and clearing her throat. Ian looked at his new friend. She seemed nervous. 

“So um.. I was wondering.. if you wanted to um.. get a drink sometime or dinner or see a movie-.”

“Oh,” Ian spluttered, knowing where this conversation was going. He could feel the heat rapidly rising in his cheeks. 

“I’d invite you for coffee but well, you know,” Jez laughed, screwing her face up in an exaggerated look of disgust. 

“Well..”

“You don’t want to, that’s cool. No biggie,” she shrugged, her fingers twirling around a piece of her blonde hair, the nervous tic belying her usual casual demeanour. Ian watched as she pulled out her phone and checked the time. “We should be getting back to work, soon.”

“It’s not that I don’t like you-,” he mumbled, running his hand through his hair. 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain why-.”

“I’m gay,” he stated. It had been so long since Ian had met anyone new, that he had forgotten what it was like to have to say the words. 

“Oh, well this is awkward,” Jez said with a self-deprecating giggle. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to corner you into telling me that.”

Ian shook his head. “Everyone in my life knows. I’m from the South Side, so it’s not exactly something you want to advertise around there, but.. it’s not a secret.”

“That’s cool,” Jez said and Ian thought he could see her relaxing with relief. “You got a boyfriend?”

Ian felt his words catch in his throat. He didn’t know how to answer that question, he just knew he wanted to say yes. “Umm, I..” his voice trailed off and he felt a lump threatening to rise in his throat. “I guess, if we were on Facebook our relationship status would be _it's complicated_.” 

“Right,” Jez said with a knowing nod of her head, as if she completely understood. Maybe she did. She paused, absentmindedly tearing at the paper bag still scrunched in her hand. “Facebook should have more relationship options to choose from. Like, _it’s a train wreck._ ”

Ian smiled at her joke, feeling the threat of tears dissipating as his laughter took its place.

“Or, _it’s a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions_ ,” Jez continued, with a pleased grin.

“I _t's stagnating_ ,” Ian added drily.

Jez laughed a loud, honest laugh. “Good one,” she giggled. “You’re funny, Ian.”

Ian smiled. “You are too. I think we could be good friends.”

Jez stood up throwing her empty lunch wrapper in the bin. She nodded. “Me too. Let's do that then.”

Ian agreed and they walked back to work together, the awkwardness between them melting away. Ian spent the rest of his shift trying to avoid reliving conversation with Jez, but the cafe was always quieter after the lunchtime rush had ended, and there was less work for him to distract himself with. _You got a boyfriend?_ The words rattled around in his head. _Yes,_ he had wanted to say, _his name is Mickey._

* * *

“It’s Mickey’s birthday, soon,” Ian said to Mandy, as he lounged in the window sill of his bedroom.

“Is it?” she replied, boredly from her position sprawled out on Ian’s bed, flicking aimlessly through the _Alt Java_ recipe book that Ian was supposed to be committing to memory. “Birthdays were never really our thing.”

Ian shrugged, as he gazed out over the rooftops of his neighbourhood. “Well, we don’t really do birthdays, either,” he agreed. “But I thought maybe we could do something cool for him this year. I mean his last birthday was spent in prison.”

Mandy snorted unsympathetically. “Yeah well, whose fault was that?” she muttered. Three weeks ago, she probably would have agreed with Ian. But now that she knew Mickey had got himself sent there on purpose - well, she had fewer fucks to give.

Ian blinked, surprised that Mandy even knew about that. “He told you?” Ian waited for a response from his friend, but Mandy only shrugged. He wondered what the hell was up with her recently. She seemed grumpier than usual.

“Anyway, I’m trying to think of a present for him,” he mused, tapping his foot absently against the window frame. “I can spend about eighty bucks.”

Mandy rolled her eyes and turned over a page in the recipe book. “I usually just get him a tube of barbecue Pringles and call it a day,” she admitted. Her eyes scanned the page she was on and she tapped her finger nonchalantly against it. “Here. This fucking Snickers bar latte. Make him one of those.”

Ian frowned. Mandy was no help, and Mickey deserved better than a fucking latte that Ian could buy with his thirty per cent staff discount. He was frustrated. Just because their families didn’t really _do birthdays_ didn’t mean they couldn’t start. Nothing was written in stone and he could afford a present for Mickey if he planned in advance. But he was also worried about Mandy. Something was wrong.

“You okay, Mands?” Ian asked, sliding his legs back inside his room and turning to face her. He watched as her entire body froze the moment the question had escaped his lips. “You just seem a bit.. out of sorts recently.”

“I’m fucking fine,” Mandy snapped, standing up and skulking off to the bathroom. Ian stared after her, unsure what to do. Mandy obviously wasn’t _fucking fine_ , but coaxing her to open up was difficult if she wasn’t in the mood to talk. Mandy returned from the bathroom a few moments later, her face lit up with a grin and giggling madly.

“We should throw him a party and hire a bouncing castle!” she babbled, staring at Ian with wild eyes. “Yev would love that too. Well, it’s not his birthday but he could still use it. We all could. How much fucking fun would that be? Shit. We could get high and take turns in the bouncey house. Oh my god. Why haven’t I ever thought of this before?”

Ian had been around enough drugs back when he worked at the club to know exactly what had caused the instantaneous change in Mandy.

“Mandy, you’re coked out of your mind,” he said quietly, placing his hands on her shoulders and looking directly into her blown pupils. “Please, tell me what’s wrong?”

She laughed loudly, palming at her hair. “I’m fucking bored! That’s what’s wrong. Let’s go out, Ian.”

Ian groaned. He was tired from work. The last thing he felt like doing was going out on the town with his best friend while she was pinging on coke. He was hoping to get an early night. “Mands.. you know I’ll go out with you, any other time. I’m just.. so tired…-” he started.

“Fucking whatever, Ian!” she laughed, sitting down on the edge of his bed and pulling on her boots. “I’ll go out on my own.”

Shit. 

_Looks like I’m going out tonight, afterall._

* * *

They ended up in West Town at a bar that was overflowing with hipsters and university students. Ian spent the entire time leaning against one of the tall tables, sipping slowly on his beer, feeling like the world’s biggest, wettest blanket. He probably looked like a massive perve too, as his eyes never left Mandy, who really was _dancing like nobody was watching,_ with every guy within a four foot radius. Ian yawned, trying desperately to stave off his overwhelming desire for sleep and wished he had invited Mickey along. He would have hated it, but his constant grumbling would have at least been entertaining. 

“Watch my drink, Ian,” Mandy ordered, staggering up to him, her face plastered with an unabating drunken grin. She thrust her vodka and raspberry in Ian’s face and he held it for her, obediently. “It’ll be last call soon. I gotta… stock up… stock up on drinks so I got some queued up ready to... drink.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, under his breath. He was the world’s worst chaperone. 

Ian watched as she ordered more drinks at the bar, the bartender lining up three shot glasses in front of her. To Ian's absolute horror, she downed them all, one after another in about thirty seconds. A guy standing next to her grabbed at her arse and Ian shot out from his table, clearing the room in four long steps. 

“Hey.. fuck off.. fucking arsehole!” Mandy yelled drunkenly, as the creep lunged towards her, trying to pull her towards him.

“She's with me,” Ian said firmly, appearing by Mandy's side and leaning towards the guy, getting up in his face. They were evenly matched in height, but the guy was bigger than Ian, bulkier. He looked like some sporty frat boy type; the kind of guy Ian generally tried to avoid.

“What the fuck are you going to do about it, pretty boy?” The guy said, spitting his words into Ian's face. “And as if she's yours! You're a fucking fag if ever I've seen one!”

Ian clenched his jaw, his chin set in stone cold defiance. Frat boys. They either went around calling everyone faggots or their gaydar was fucking brilliant. They always knew. 

“Just fuck off and leave her alone,” Ian hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh, hey.. I have a knife!” Mandy exclaimed drunkenly as if she'd just remembered. Ian shuddered, and put her arm around her trying to lead her away from the bar as she swayed, fumbling for her knife.

“Oops, dropped it,” she said, giggling, as the blade clattered down past the bar stools and onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Ian groaned as he bent over to pick up Mandy's weapon. “Come on, Mands. Let's leave this arsehole to it,” he muttered as he stood up to lead her out of the bar, stuffing her knife back in his pocket before anyone saw it and took it as a threat. As he turned to leave, his face was clipped with the edge of a fist. Ian recoiled, staggering backwards, his hand instinctively moving to his face where he had been hit. He heard Mandy's voice screaming out _oh shit_ , and the bar staff yelling for the three of them to leave.

Fuck. Ian pulled himself together and threw an angry fist at the frat boys face, touching down on his nose, with a loud, satisfying crack. Ian could feel the blood from the frat boys broken nose glistening on his knuckles. He grabbed Mandy.

“You're fucking dead meat, faggot!” The frat boy screamed in Ian's face, clutching at his nose, blood pouring out from the gaps between his fingers. He turned for a brief second towards the back of the bar near the pool tables and yelled for his friend. “Yo Josh, let's take him out the back! Rip him a new fucking arsehole!”

 _Fucking hell._ Ian took advantage of the brief second when the frat boy had turned to his friend and grabbed Mandy, dragging her awkwardly through the bar, pushing past the people who had gathered to watch the fight.

“Look at the ginger prick run!” The frat boy was yelling behind them as they exited the bar at a run. All Ian could hear was the panicked beating of his heart and the sound of his and Mandy's feet thumping on the cement. His only thought was that he needed to get them both to safety. 

“Shit, Ian,” Mandy cursed between drunken sobs. “Shit.”

“We need to find an alley somewhere,” Ian rasped through heaving breaths as they ran down the footpath, the night air whooshing past their faces. He clutched at Mandy's hand for dear life, feeling her fingernails digging into his palms and never before feeling so grateful for the pain. 

He couldn't tell if they were putting distance between themselves and the frat boys and he knew looking back would only slow them down. They stumbled blindly around corners, across roads and, neither of them having any idea where they were. Finally, Ian saw a gap to their left and he pulled Mandy into the dark, wet alley.

They cowered silently behind a row of filthy garbage bins, trying not to inhale the stench of piss and listening to the rhythmic _thump, thump, thump_ of footsteps as the frat boys drew closer. 

They ran past the alley way without seeing Mandy and Ian, like a scene out of a cartoon. 

“Where are you, faggot?” One of them yelled, but the voice was finally far enough away that Ian allowed himself to breath a sigh of relief.

“I feel s-sick,” Mandy slurred as she attempted to stand up. She took a few unsteady, lurching steps forward and vomited against the opposite wall of the alley. 

Ian rubbed his forehead in frustration and moved over to Mandy. He rubbed a hand on her lower back and held her hair back out of her face while her body heaved and rattled.

“You're okay,” he said quietly. “You're safe now.” 

Mandy hiccuped and sat back on her haunches, wiping away at her mouth. “I'm sorry, Ian,” she mumbled.

Ian kneeled down on the cement next to his best friend. The concrete dug into his kneecaps painfully, but he didn't care. “What's wrong, Mands,” he said quietly. “Please tell me.”

Mandy gave an exaggerated, drunken shake of her head. “It's nothing.”

“I came with you tonight because I was worried about you and I almost got fag bashed for it,” Ian said, pointedly, holding Mandy steady by her shoulders. The light from the passing cars sparkled in patches on her face. Ian could see she was crying. “Tell me what's wrong, _please_.”

Mandy shifted her gaze to the ground, remaining silent.

“Is it Kenyatta? Are you scared?”

“Hate being in that house,” she finally replied, slurring her words and avoiding eye contact with Ian. “Hate going home.” 

Ian paused. He couldn’t help feeling like there was more to this that Mandy wasn’t telling him. He wanted to ask how long she had felt this way, but knowing the things that had happened in that house since he had known Mandy, the answer was probably _always._ Even so, he wanted - needed to try and help his best friend. “Well, if you don’t want to live there…” he started. “Maybe we could get a place together?”

Mandy’s head shot up, she blinked, her blue eyes finally meeting Ian’s. “You’d do that?”

Ian nodded. “If we can afford it.”

“You don’t want to live with Mickey, again?”

Ian bit his lip. Of course he wanted to live with Mickey. He wanted to live with both of them. But he had to be realistic; Mickey was still working out his feelings for him and they weren’t at the point of physical intimacy outside of cuddling. Living with Mickey again was so far in the future, Ian couldn't even imagine it. “That’s not going to happen anytime soon, Mands.”

“Let’s do it then.. let’s fucking move,” Mandy said, with an almost gleeful, drunken laugh. “Where will we go?”

Ian smiled and smoothed out Mandy’s hair. “I don't know,” he shrugged. “Let's talk about it more when you'll actually remember it.”

“Okay.”

“But right now, we need to get an uber back there,” he frowned, pulling out his phone. He stole a glance at Mandy. “I’m sorry, okay? Things will look better in the morning, I promise.”

* * *

Ian laid awake in bed the next morning, his arms wrapped around Mickey in almost exactly the same position as they had fallen asleep the night before. His eyes stung from the lack of sleep, but he had woken a few minutes before his alarm out of habit. He stared at Mickey’s face, studying the way his dark eyelashes fanned out across his cheeks and how his lips were ever so slightly pursed. Mickey always looked so peaceful and relaxed while he was sleeping. Ian wondered what he dreamed about. 

Sometimes it just wasn't enough for Ian to be sleeping with Mickey and waking up next to him in the morning. He wanted to be closer, needed to be. His entire body just longed to be closer to Mickey, to feel him everywhere. Ian wanted to make him gasp and groan with pleasure, to taste him, feel him unraveling beneath him. He wanted to show Mickey how much he loved him in the best way he knew - _fuck_. Ian felt his dick growing hard in his boxers, stiffening against Mickey’s, which responded in kind. This was fucking torture.

Ian tried to calm himself down, tried to convince himself that all that really mattered was he and Mickey were together again - that they were no longer separated by distance or prison or mental illness. He really wanted to believe that it didn’t matter, that what they had didn’t need a label, but Ian was finding it a hard sell. He had wanted Mickey to be his boyfriend since the very first time they had fucked, and when he finally had been Ian could barely remember it. Or he did remember it, but the memory of them actually officially together felt to Ian like it had happened to someone else. As if he had been watching their lives together unfold from somewhere outside of himself. A car crash; unfolding in slow motion and high speed all at once and Ian had been powerless to hold onto the moment. 

It was as if everything Ian wanted with Mickey was within reach, but torturously far away at the same time. The two of them together, like they were before was almost tangible, he could almost reach out and take it. But Ian had promised Mickey he would wait. And he would, but waiting was hard. So fucking hard. 

He'd been thinking a lot about their relationship ever since Jez had asked him if he had a boyfriend. He'd been so close to saying _yes_ , but the knowledge that the correct answer was _no_ , continued to ache in the pit of his stomach. Ian wasn’t sure whether sleeping with Mickey and walking the treacherous line between friends and lovers was helping or confusing things in his mind. A nagging voice at the back of his head told him it was confusing things, that maybe they should stop. But Ian didn’t like the idea of physical distance between him and Mickey any more than he enjoyed the confusing frustration.

Ian sighed and forced himself to start thinking about something else. Things were pretty good right now. He was happy. They hadn’t been bothered by Frank or Monica since Mickey and Frank had _hashed things out like gentlemen._ Fiona had accepted the five hundred dollars that Mickey had prised from Frank’s drunken hands without question and Mickey’s dry cleaning scam had miraculously started paying off. Every week since the letters were sent out, Mickey had checked the drop box and collected cheques, money orders and cash.

Ian was lurched back into reality by the unsympathetic chiming of his alarm next to Mickey’s side of the bed. He watched as Mickey’s eyes fluttered open and an arm shot out and pressed snooze.

“Mornin’,” Mickey said, yawning languidly. “You gotta take your pills.”

Ian nodded. “In a minute.”

Mickey hummed and pressed his face into Ian’s neck, breathing in. He smelled so fucking good. He always did. Mickey expected Ian to lean into him, at the very least enjoy the affection but instead, Ian almost tensed at the contact. Something was wrong. “S’up with you? You anxious?”

Ian shook his head lamely and looked up at the ceiling. 

“Can hear you thinkin’, firecrotch. Spit it out,” Mickey coaxed, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice even at this early hour.

Ian sighed, grinding his teeth while he tried to find the words. “Well, I.. I was thinking.. are you happy with how things are... with us, Mick?”

“The fuck you thinkin’ ‘bout this shit at six thirty in the mornin’ for?” Mickey asked wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was way too fucking early for a heart to heart.

Ian shrugged. He didn’t know why his brain did anything anymore. 

Mickey sighed, searching Ian’s face for answers that he couldn’t find. “You ain't happy?”

Ian nodded. “I just.. don’t know how to categorize..” he waved a hand back and forth in the space between them, “this.”

Mickey exhaled deeply. This was fucking typical of Ian, always having to have shit sorted neatly in his head. Worrying about it if it wasn't. “Who the fuck cares about that?” Mickey shrugged. “We ain’t hiding’ nothin’. I aint fuckin’ no one else, you ain’t fucking no one else..”

“Of course I’m not,” Ian snapped, sensing a question in Mickey’s statement. “But, is it confusing things, us sleeping together like this? I mean.. would it be easier for you to decide what you want, if we didn't-.”

“I ain’t decidin’ nothing, man. We’re figurin’ out how to be better,” Mickey said softly, rubbing his fingers over Ian’s arm. _I’m learning how to trust you again._

Ian looked into Mickey’s blue eyes and nodded.

“You don’t like what we got goin’ on, no more?” Mickey asked, inwardly cursing the hurt that he was still too tired to prevent from creeping into his voice. 

“I do..” Ian said with a loud sigh. “It’s just.. it’s hard sometimes.”

Mickey couldn’t really argue with that. It was fucking hard, sorting through all his bullshit feelings, resisting temptation everytime they were together, trying to convince himself that he could trust Ian again. But things had always been hard between them, and compared to what they’d already been through, compared to being apart, this was a fucking cakewalk. 

“We’ll get back to how it was, okay?” Mickey breathed, closing the distance between them. “Better than how it was. Promise.”

Ian nodded with a half-smile. 

Their noses were touching and Mickey could count the flecks of brown in Ian’s green eyes and the freckles spattered across his cheeks. He could feel the tension between them, the choice lingering in the space between their lips; he could kiss Ian, or he could save whatever might happen for another day. But Ian liked big gestures, and Mickey was better with his actions than his words. So, it wasn’t really much of a choice at all in the end.

Mickey leaned in and pressed his lips against Ian’s. He had to show him that he meant what he said, that they’d get back to how they were. Their lips remained together, soft and warm, unmoving for a few seconds. Ian let out a little gasp but otherwise didn’t respond and Mickey knew Ian was leaving it up to him. Mickey moved his hand to the side of Ian’s neck, licking at Ian's lips and parting them with his tongue. 

Suddenly they were kissing for real, for only the second time in the four months since that time at the diner. Ian moved an arm around Mickey, pulling them closer together, bare skin against bare skin. Mickey moved his other hand down to Ian’s lower back, as their tongues gently fucked inside each others’ mouths. _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ Mickey repeated inside his head. The room was filled with the sound of wet lips slow smacking together and Mickey thought it was just about the hottest fucking sound he’d ever heard.

The alarm went off on Ian’s phone again, and without missing a beat Mickey’s arm reached behind him. He slammed his hand down ungraciously on the phone, hitting snooze once more.

“Fuck, Mickey..” Ian gasped, breaking the kiss, but keeping his hands pressed to Mickey's body, not wanting to let him go. “You sure about this?”

Mickey shook his head and snorted a laugh. “No.” He wasn't sure at all, because he didn't think he actually had thoughts at this point, only impulses and desire, dick overtaking brain. He returned his lips to Ian’s anyway, right as the door to the room flung open.

“Fucking shit or get off the pot, arseface!” Mandy yelled from the door. “Get up or turn the fucking alarm off! Some of us are still trying to fucking sleep!”

“Jesus, bitch! Try knockin’ next time!” Mickey yelled back, rolling over to face his sister. “Ever think you might be interrupting something?”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t even try telling me you two douchebags have gotten your act together long enough to actually fuck. I won’t fucking believe it.”

Ian stifled a laugh and pulled the covers over his face. Listening to Mickey and Mandy hurling abuse at each other never stopped being funny. He couldn’t imagine a world where it ever would.

“Leave!” Mickey screamed, grabbing a dirty tshirt off the floor and pelting it at his sister. Mandy sighed petulantly and turned on her heels, slamming the door shut with such force that flakes of plaster fell from the walls and ceiling.

Ian emerged from under the covers. “So that happened,” he said drily. Mickey shoved playfully at Ian’s shoulder and they both dissolved into fits of laughter, their eyes stinging with happy tears and clutching at their stomachs.

“Ay,” Mickey started once their laughter had settled down. The moment had been ruined by Mandy, but it was probably for the best. He figured it was time to actually answer Ian's question from earlier. Ian turned to look at him again. “I like what we got goin’ on, man. I’m… happy.”

“I’m happy too,” Ian agreed. And it was true, he really was.

“That shit means somethin’, Gallagher,” Mickey said, rolling onto his back. “I don’t throw that word around for the fuckin’ hell of it.”

“Me either.”

Mickey leaned over and mussed up Ian’s hair. “Then we’re good, aight. Let’s not overthink shit and ruin it.” He watched as Ian nodded slightly in agreement. “Now get up and take your fuckin’ pills.” 

Ian sighed and rolled his eyes. _Bossy Mickey_. He climbed out of bed and headed towards the bathroom, but turned back at the last second to face Mickey in bed. “You need to talk to Mands. She's upset about something.”

Mickey snorted and shook his head. “Fuck her, she's just a bitch in the mornin’.” His eyes scanned Ian standing there in the doorway to the bathroom, and his gaze settled on the bruise on Ian’s jaw. He hadn’t seen that before. “The fuck happened to your face?”

“Oh.” Ian palmed at the place the frat boy’s fist had clipped him. He’d forgotten about that. That would go down really well at his new job. “Got into it a little with some homophobic arsehole last night.”

“Fucking christ, Ian,” Mickey groaned.

“You should see the other guy.”

Mickey’s face lit up in an impressed grin. “Really?”

Ian nodded, as he filled with pride at Mickey’s reaction. _Jesus, I am so fucked up,_ he chastised himself. “Anyway,” he changed the subject. “There's something wrong with Mands. I'm really worried about her.”

Mickey raised a suspicious eyebrow and hummed thoughtfully, placing one arm underneath his head like a pillow. His sister was kinda always a moody bitch. Mickey would consider there to be _something wrong with her_ if she wasn’t. 

“You know I wouldn't rat her out for no reason,” Ian said solemnly. “Talk to her. For me.. please?”

Mickey smirked. “Fine.” Gallagher could be such a manipulative little shit. The kid knew exactly which buttons to press to get him to do something. 

Mickey watched as Ian disappeared behind the door to the bathroom to take his pills. He thought about what had just happened between them and was actually kinda glad that Mandy had barged in. It had given him a good excuse to stop without looking like a whiny little bitch. But still, he’d managed to make out with Ian for a bit without freaking out like a fucking teenage girl so he considered that a win. 

He hummed as he felt his dick twitching back to life in his boxers. The water from the shower turned on in the bathroom and Mickey’s brain started to fill with mental images of naked, wet Ian Gallagher, because of course it fucking did. Without even really thinking about it, he slid his hand underneath his boxers and started playing with himself. Jesus he was so fucking hard. He wondered whether this was the longest amount of time he’d gone without fucking. It certainly fucking felt like it .A pleasant groan escaped his lips as he rubbed his thumb over his slit. This really wasn’t going to take long. Not at all. 

It suddenly occurred to him that jerking himself off while Ian was in the shower probably made him a bit of an arsehole. Well, _more of an arsehole_ to be fucking precise. He whined to himself in frustration as he removed his hand from his pants, and tried to think of something off-putting enough to extinguish his raging boner. Mickey thought about tits and pussy. It worked like a fucking charm.

Next to him on the bedside table, his phone started ringing. Who the fuck was calling him at seven thirty in the fucking morning? Whoever it was could go fuck themselves. He barely even wanted to be alive at this fucking hour, least of all on the phone to someone. He let his phone ring out, but a few minutes later it buzzed with a notification of a voicemail.

For fucksake. People never could take a hint. He dialed the number for voicemail and pressed his phone up to his ear;

 _This is a message from the Illinois Department of Corrections Parole Division. We need to speak with Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich regarding a recent parole violation. Failure to respond to this request will be considered an additional breach and further disciplinary action will be taken._

Well, fuck. 

Mickey tossed his phone onto his bed and snorted. That was that, then. He’d finally let himself believe that he could be happy - _was_ happy - and now he was going back to prison. He casually wondered what it was that he’d been picked up for. Beating up Frank, the dry cleaning scam, some fucking thing his idiot brothers had done, the fact they had a cache of military grade weapons stashed in the basement? All of the above? 

Six months. 

That’s how long it had taken for the DOC to realise they’d made a mistake letting Mickey Milkovich out of prison. Six months to settle into a job he didn’t hate and a semi-respectable life that was bordering on enjoyable. And six months to finally get to a good place with Ian again. 

He knew he should probably be panicking or angry, or upset or some fucking variation on all three. But for some reason, he sat up in the middle of his bed and laughed. A loud, uncontrollable, almost maniacal laugh.

Fucked for life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter and the next chapter were originally one but it was waaaay too long so I split them into two, which is why this chapter is a little light on Mickey stuff. I promise the next chapter will be Milkovich AF. SO MUCH MICKEY! AND MANDY!
> 
> I'm feeling a little protective of our beloved hero Mickey atm, so I just want to say when Mickey says he's an arsehole, it's his lingering self-esteem issues NOT that I personally think he is. I, of course, think he's a sweet prince.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!! And if you want to rant about Shameless in the comments, feel free - I'm here for it. I cannot say enough about this show right now.
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr: [radiatingsuburbanangst.tumblr.com](http://radiatingsuburbanangst.tumblr.com)


	16. Coping Mechanisms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey sat in the parole office, biting furiously at his fingernails, feeling the metallic taste spread over his tongue as his teeth finally drew blood. It had been five days since he’d received the phone call from the DOC, but unlike whenever Terry or his fucking brothers had violated parole, there had been no cops storming into his house to make an arrest. Mickey was pretty sure that meant he’d been pulled for something non-violent, which only left the dry-cleaning scam among his string of recent, everyday offences. It was fucking typical though; that he’d end up back in the can, separated from Ian, for a crime he committed for Ian. Again.

Mickey was getting his affairs in order. He was pretty sure that’s what people called it. Except he wasn’t dying, he was just going back to prison. He laughed humourlessly as he thought about that. _Just going back to prison._ It sounded so fucking ordinary, like he was just heading out to grab some milk or a loaf of bread. But he supposed it was ordinary, normal in fact, because he was a Milkovich, and that’s what Milkoviches did. They went to prison, they got released from prison, they violated parole and then they went back to prison. Mickey had fooled himself into believing he was better than that, but he wasn’t. He was the same useless piece of shit that he’d been before he went in the joint, and he was fucking deluded to have allowed himself believe otherwise.

There was no point feeling sorry for himself though. He had a couple more days left before his appointment at the DOC parole office, where he figured he’d be self-surrendering, and he needed to make sure Mandy was okay. Since Ian was fucking convinced she was grouchier than normal, he couldn’t go back in the can without seeing for himself.

“Your derivatives are all wrong,” Mickey said, peering over his shoulder at Mandy’s GED calculus homework.

“I fucking know everything is wrong,” Mandy said, throwing her pencil down on the table. “Fuck you.”

Mickey pulled a pop-tart out of the cupboard and started gnawing on it. “You ain't balancing out both sides of the equation, either.”

“Who the fuck died and made you Einstein?” she snapped, screwing her nose up at the sight of her brother eating a raw pop-tart. “And I never asked for your fucking opinion, genius.” 

Mickey shrugged. “Ain't my opinion. It's a fucking fact,” he stated, wondering why the fuck he couldn’t initiate a meaningful conversation with his sister without antagonising her first. 

“I wish Ian was doing this shit with me,” Mandy muttered. “We could at least help each other.”

Mickey snorted, opening the fridge and sculling milk directly from the carton. “Gallagher wouldn't be helpin’ shit,” he said, laughing hoarsely. “He's worse at this stuff than you are.” 

He sat down at the kitchen table, thinking he might as well at least help Mandy with her fucking calculus, because without him around, who else would? 

“Let me-,” he started, but a rhythmic _tap, tap, tapping_ sound interrupted his train of thought. He looked up at his sister, blood dripping from her nose. _Jesus fucking christ._ “The fuck, Mands?”

Mandy wiped her nose awkwardly on her hand, smearing blood over her skin. “It's nothing,” she muttered, disappearing to the bathroom.

“Yeah, I know exactly what the fuck kind of nothing that is!” Mickey yelled, following his sister to the bathroom. Coke, chalk dust, whatever the fuck. And a lot of it too, judging by the effect it was having on Mandy’s nose.

“Fuck off!” Mandy yelled back at Mickey, patting toilet paper against her nose to try and stave off the bleeding.

“You been doin’ that shit around Ian?” Mickey screamed at her. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. Was Ian doing it, too? _Fucking christ_. “It ain’t good for him to be around that shit, Mands.”

Mandy snorted, looking at her brother and shaking her head. “Oh relax, Mickey,” she sneered. “Ian is _fine._ And he’s not twelve fucking years old. Your sister is the fucked up one. Not your boyfriend.” 

“Hey, come on,” Mickey said, reaching out and grabbing Mandy’s shoulder. He really shouldn’t have immediately made it all about Ian. “What's up with you?”

Mandy stared back at her brother, refusing to answer his question.

“You been stomping around this house like a fuckin’ yeti with PMS for weeks now,” Mickey cursed, shaking Mandy’s shoulder. “The fuck’s goin’ on?” 

Mandy shrugged her shoulder away from Mickey’s grasp and folded her arms across her chest. “You don't fucking want to know, okay arsehole?” she said quietly, her voice low and shaky as she tried to prevent her tears from falling. “You think you do, but you don't.”

“Some motherfucker do somethin’ to you?”

Mandy laughed hollowly. Some motherfucker, alright.

Mickey gnawed mercilessly on his bottom lip and began pacing around the short distance of the bathroom like a caged animal. “Tell me who the fuck touched you and I will cut his fuckin’ dick off.”

Mandy sighed. She knew Mickey would say something like that. “You can't fix this.”

Mickey heard Ian’s words inside his head. _You can't fix me, because I'm not broken._ Those two were exactly the fucking same. No wonder they were such good fucking friends.

“ _I'll_ decide what I can and can't fix!” he roared at Mandy. He watched as she took a step away from him, fear flashing across her face at his outburst. Mickey took a deep breath and tried to soften his demeanour. “Least let me fuckin’ try?”

Mandy sighed and closed her eyes, preferring not to make eye contact with her brother as she said the words. “I know what happened for Yev to be born,” she said monotonously. “And I could have prevented it.”

* * *

They sat in the living room in the dark, Mickey listening as his sister told him about the story of how their fucking piece of shit father had raped her while he had been sitting in juvie unable to do shit all about it. 

“If I’d told you about it, you or Iggy could have dealt with dad,” Mandy said, leaning her head back against the couch. “Then he’d have been out of our lives and all that.. other shit wouldn’t have fucking happened.”

Mickey put his arm around his sister. He was consumed with the conflicting desires of murdering their father in the most brutal way possible, and taking his sister’s pain away. Mickey wasn’t sure he could do either. “Don’t play the what-if game, Mands.”

“But it’s my fault,” she lamented, kicking at the coffee table in front of her. 

“It ain’t. It’s Terry’s fault. But don’t wish Yev away,” Mickey said quietly, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. “It don’t matter no more how he happened.. just don’t wish him away.”

Mandy hadn’t thought about it like that before. It wasn’t that she resented Yev; she loved him. She just wished her brother hadn’t had to go through what he had. Mandy wrapped her arms around Mickey and hugged him, letting herself cry into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mickey,” she sobbed. “I feel like an arsehole. I.. I didn’t think.”

Mickey sighed. He was fucking useless at comforting people when they weren’t Ian. “Don’t be sorry,” he said, lamely. “My only fuckin’ concern is you.”

“But I am sorry.”

Mickey shook his head. “Took me a while,” he murmured, exhaling deeply, “but I realised while I was in the joint that I love Yev. Wouldn’t change him for nothin’.”

“How’d you get over it?” Mandy asked, then added, “what happened, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Mickey shrugged, rubbing at his face. “Just had to. And having Ian helped, even though we never talked about or nothin’.”

Mandy nodded. It was no wonder her brother and her best friend were unable to give up on each other. “Don’t ever let him go, Mick,” she said, grabbing her brother’s hand and squeezing it. “Promise me, whatever happens, you’ll always work it out.”

Mickey laughed bitterly. If only he could promise Mandy that. He couldn’t even promise her that him and Ian would be together three days from now. He shut his eyes and tried to fight the curdling guilt in his stomach and the stinging behind his eyes.

“Me and him, we’re a fuckin’ house of cards,” he said absently, “a house of cards that’ll crumble under the fuckin’ weight of itself if either of the walls are removed.” He wondered which of the walls would crumble first when he went back to prison. Would it be him or would it be Ian? Was it wishful thinking to hope it would be neither of them?

Mandy hummed quietly. “I hate living in this fucking house,” she muttered. “I don’t think about what happened when I’m not living here.”

Mickey felt physically sick thinking that in two days he’d be back in prison and Mandy would be on her own in their house of horrors with nothing to keep her company but their useless brothers, Svetlana and a hundred painful memories. What a fucking piece of shit brother he was.

“Mands,” he started, pulling away from the hug so he could look at his sister’s face. “You know I’ll always do whatever I can to protect you and shit?”

Mandy nodded, furrowing her brow in confusion.

“But I might not always be able to,” he muttered, looking down at the floor. “Just don’t forget you got Ian too, aight? He’ll look after you.”

“Sure..” Mandy said, wondering what the hell Mickey was getting at. “Me and Ian thought we might move out together into our own apartment.”

Mickey blinked, letting Mandy’s words sink in. That was brand new fucking information. If he hadn’t been going back to prison, he might have been annoyed that Ian would be moving to another neighbourhood. But without Mickey around, it was probably a good thing that two of the people he cared about the most would be together, looking out for each other.

“Okay,” he replied finally. “Ian will look after you. You gotta look after him, too.”

Mandy looked at Mickey in bewilderment but nodded in agreement, regardless.

“Terry has to fuckin’ die, you know that right?” Mickey muttered, blithely. He wasn’t sure whether being in prison would make it easier or more difficult to get the job done. “Just don’t know how to make it happen just yet.”

Mandy shook her head. “Let him die of fucking heart disease in the can,” she said bitterly. “We’ll never see him again. That’s all I fucking care about.”

“Natural causes is too fuckin’ good for him.”

“Do you really want to be responsible for the murder of our father?” Mandy said, with a raised eyebrow. “I mean, really?”

Mickey shrugged petulantly, but he knew his sister was right. Whatever small shred of conscience he had was better off without the weight of their piece of shit father’s death resting on it. 

He sighed and put his arm around Mandy again, pulling her into a hug, trying to savour the rare moment of closeness between them knowing they wouldn’t be experiencing it again for a long time.

* * *

Ian was being ignored. Ever since they had made out the other morning, Mickey had been giving him the silent treatment; his calls and texts to Mickey were all going unanswered. It was exactly like the last time when they had gotten closer, and Mickey had backed off. Only it wasn’t really _backing off_ , as far as Ian was concerned, it was straight up ignoring. 

Even though he was enjoying his new job, he was struggling to concentrate with his mind constantly overrun with thoughts of Mickey. It was ironic really, that after all this time, with Mickey back in his life and a new job, that Ian was still spending every waking moment ruminating about Mickey Milkovich. The only difference was this time Ian didn’t really know what he could do to fix things between them. He wasn’t about to go and apologise, because he didn’t think it was his fault. Mickey had initiated everything the last time they were together so if he was feeling rushed, Ian didn’t think there was anything he could have done differently. 

Ian had tried to be patient with Mickey but taking two steps forward and then one step back in their relationship, if it even _was_ a relationship, was torture. He was sick of spending his life feeling excited and then upset; hopeful about Mickey and then worried that he might never speak to him again.

Ian finished preparing the last lunch time rush order on the computer at _Alt Java_ and decided to take a stealthy two minute break. He pulled out his phone and called Mickey’s number again, but it rang out and went to voicemail just like the other 97 times Ian had called him. Ian wondered if this is how absolutely fucking shitty Mickey had felt when he’d run off with Yev that time. He pushed that thought out of his head and focused on directing his anger at Mickey instead. Regardless of the things Ian had done when he was manic, he was pretty sure he didn’t deserve to be ignored like this now.

His bottom lip started to tremble and Ian wasn’t sure whether he was reacting out of anger or hurt. Probably both. The rollercoaster of emotions and uncertainty was too much. 

He couldn’t do it anymore. 

* * *

Mickey sat in the parole office, biting furiously at his fingernails, feeling the metallic taste spread over his tongue as his teeth finally drew blood. It had been five days since he’d received the phone call from the DOC, but unlike whenever Terry or his fucking brothers had violated parole, there had been no cops storming into his house to make an arrest. Mickey was pretty sure that meant he’d been pulled for something non-violent, which only left the dry-cleaning scam among his string of recent, everyday offences. It was fucking typical though; that he’d end up back in the can, separated from Ian, for a crime he committed _for Ian_. Again.

Ian. Once again, the mere thought of the redhead was inspiring waves of roiling, burning nausea in his stomach, just like it had six months ago. Mickey had officially come full circle. He hadn’t said goodbye to Ian before he’d left to self-surrender; he hadn’t even seen Ian since the day of the kiss and the phone call. Mickey thought it was better that way. He’d be going to prison for a long arse time this time around, so there was no point in a long drawn out goodbye. Whatsmore, he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to leave if he said goodbye to Ian in person. Mickey might just do something really fucking stupid instead. 

Mickey didn’t expect Ian to wait for him while he idled years of his life away behind bars. They were done, even if Ian didn’t know it yet. He’d figure it out as soon as Mickey used his phone privileges to call him from the joint. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but they’d had a nice few months together, and their last memory would be of the kiss that Mandy interrupted. It wasn’t a bad way to end things. Definitely better than the first fucking time, that’s for sure. 

Ian would be able to tell Mandy what had happened, and Svetlana, well - Mickey really didn’t expect her to care too much. She’d probably visit like she had the last time, peppering her conversations with little barbs just so Mickey was aware how fucking useless he was, just in case he’d ever be able to forget.

The one person Mickey had said goodbye to was Yevgeny. Ironically, the only one who would have absolutely no fucking idea what was going on. He’d given Yev one last, lingering cuddle, before tucking him back into his cot and leaving the house like he was leaving for another day at work. Business as fucking usual.

Mickey bit down on his bottom lip as he felt it begin to tremble involuntarily. Fucksake. He did not want to sit in the DOC parole office crying like a little bitch, because he’d been picked up for a fucking fraud scam. What kind of self-respecting recidivist would he be? It was bad enough that he was sitting there _self-surrendering_ like a fucking coward. His main problem was that he knew he was going to miss Ian and he already knew how fucking terrible that felt. Fuck, he already did miss Ian and he’d only been avoiding him for five days. Five fucking days. Sure, he was going to miss the shit out of the guy, and that alone was gay as fuck, but he was not a fucking pussy. Mickey Milkovich was NOT going to add involuntary public crying to the equation.

His phone vibrated with a call, and Mickey looked down to see Ian’s face flash across the screen. Mickey stared at Ian’s photo thinking that may be the last he'd see of Ian's pretty fucking face for a long arse time. Then he did absolutely the gayest thing he had ever done; he reached down and touched the screen of his phone where Ian's lips radiated from the photo behind the glass. 

Mickey shook his head slowly in disgust at himself and wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. Finally, _fucking finally,_ Robert, his parole officer entered the office. Mickey leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. He balled his fingers into tight fists, fingernails digging into palms, the defensive gesture comforting him. His eyes perused the office walls, which were decorated, if you could call it that, with inspirational posters and platitudes. Mickey failed to see what a fucking cat hanging from a tree branch had to do with being an ex-con trying to stay out of prison. It was fucking condescending if you asked him.

“Let’s get this show on the road. Why am I here?” Mickey snapped, before Robert had a chance sit down. He wasn’t going to admit to anything unless he absolutely had to, but he wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible.

Robert shot Mickey a bemused look and sat down at his desk. “Right. Well. As you know, Mickey, your parole was granted under the provision that you meet certain requirements,” he said, shifting papers around on his desk. 

Mickey stared back at Robert with a raised eyebrow. Could this guy hurry the fuck up and get to the point so he knew how long he was going away for?

“Those requirements include finding a job and remaining gainfully employed-.” 

“And? I fuckin’ done all that,” Mickey snapped defensively. He had entered fight or flight mode now, and Milkoviches fought. Since he couldn’t use his fists, he used his words instead.

Robert sighed. “Okay then,” he continued. “I’ll cut to the chase. You submitted to a drug and alcohol screening when you were first released from prison, and another-, your most recent one, three months after that.”

Mickey shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He stared at the wall above Robert’s desk, the cat in the poster staring back at him, mocking him. _Hang in there._

“Just fuckin’ tell me,” Mickey groaned, shifting his gaze to the carpet. Mickey was an impatient man at the best of times, and Robert was getting on his last nerve.

“We got the results back from your last drug test, Mickey,” Robert said, studying a piece of paper in his hands. “The good news is the drug component came back clean.”

Mickey snorted. “Well give yourselves a fuckin’ pat on the back. Your work here is done,” he snarled. “Considering drugs were never really my fuckin’ problem in the first place.”

“Your alcohol test came back dirty. It was a very high reading,” Robert stated, ignoring Mickey’s sarcasm. A wince flashed briefly across his face. “One of the conditions of your parole is that you abstain from both drugs and alcohol. A positive result for either is considered a violation.”

Mickey huffed a humourless laugh. He couldn't fucking believe it. None of this had anything to do with Frank or the dry cleaning scam or his brothers or anything he had done with purpose. No - he was going back into the can for shotgunning beers. It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking typical. 

“My last parole meeting was three months ago,” Mickey repeated absentmindedly. “That’s when I was tested.” 

“The initial test we performed showed a reading so high I had it sent to the lab to be tested more thoroughly in case of an error.”

Mickey worried his bottom lip. “Fuck,” he exhaled slowly.

Robert flashed Mickey a sympathetic look. “The lab is always backlogged so testing takes time,” he continued. “I passed the results of the second test onto my superiors and the board met last week to discuss how to proceed.”

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose forcefully. He was fucking done for. At the same time, he realised it could have been worse. He would probably finish the remainder of his sentence in prison; separated from Ian still, but at least it wouldn’t be a new charge. Maybe Ian would wait for him, afterall? Maybe it was selfish of Mickey to even expect him to? His head was spinning with dozens of unanswered questions. But the loudest of all was the question of what the fuck he was doing three months ago when he drank so much he managed to break the drug and alcohol test.

“Okay, so I’m gettin’ thrown back in,” Mickey muttered. “How we gonna do this?”

Robert leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and shook his head. “Not necessarily. I wanted to talk to you first, see what’s going on with you,” he said, adopting a more casual tone. “Have you managed to stay away from old temptations? Bad influences?”

That was when it hit him. _Fucking Ian._ Three months ago he’d been at the rooftop getting drunk after he’d had that conversation with Lip about Ian’s boyfriend.

“Whatever. Fuck. Everyone drinks,” Mickey snapped. “If I wanted to stay away from drinkers, I’d have to become a… priest or some shit.”

“I’m more interested in _why_ you were drinking to excess.”

Mickey shrugged, dismissively. Fuck this shit. He just needed to know if he was going back in. “I don’t fuckin’ know. Not like I do it everyday or nothin’.”

“What happens before you decide to drink to excess?”

Mickey sighed and stared down at the carpet. _Ian._ “Dunno,” he lied.

“I'm trying to keep you out of prison, Mickey,” Robert said with a sigh. “I don’t want to send you back there any more than you want to go back.”

That got Mickey’s attention. Was there really a chance he wasn’t going back in? “Relationship problems,” he muttered begrudgingly, refusing to meet Robert’s eyes.

Robert nodded. “Trouble with your wife?”

“Not my fuckin’ wife. My boyfriend. _Ex-_ boyfriend. Whatever,” Mickey laughed drily. Ian was right, what they had _was_ hard to categorise. 

“We can organise relationship counselling. It may help to-.”

“No,” Mickey snapped, before Robert had a chance to finish. No _fucking_ way were he and Ian going to couples therapy. Mickey would almost prefer to go back to prison. Almost.

Robert nodded. “Everyone needs a support network. We all need coping mechanisms,” he said sympathetically. “Do you have friends you can confide in?”

Mickey almost laughed. The only person he confided in was Ian and Mickey barely even considered that confiding. He smirked at the irony of it all and sighed. “Look, I don't really do friends, aight.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Never had time for it,” Mickey shrugged. “And I ain't a friendly person.”

Robert smiled and wrote something down on his paper. “I think we can start there,” he said encouragingly. “I’d like you to try working on the relationships with other people in your life and try building new relationships.” 

Mickey rubbed at his forehead and snorted. “How would I do that as a fuckin adult? Ask people if I can sit with them at recess?”

“I’ll leave that for you to figure out,” Robert said, smiling like he knew something Mickey didn’t. “I do have to record this incident as a violation, and I’d like to schedule six-weekly visits instead, so we can touch base more often. If you pass the drug test today-.”

“I don’t have to go back in?”

“You don’t have to go back in.”

* * *

Mickey passed the test. Through some miracle he hadn’t had a drink in three days, and that was about the amount of time the test was good for. He had literally felt the stress melting from his body as he left the parole office and headed to work. Of course, Mickey was late to work so he’d made up some bullshit story about taking Yev to the doctor and no one had cared about the hours he’d missed. 

If Mickey didn’t know better than to tempt fate, he might have thought it was his lucky day; he’d managed to avoid being thrown back in the joint and stayed gainfully employed. He was fucking golden. The only wrinkle left to iron out was him and Ian. Fuck he’d really hated ignoring the guy. It had taken every bit of willpower he possessed not to go to him and say goodbye. 

The novelty of the freedom he thought he'd lost wore off mid-afternoon. The fresh air and the sight of birds flying in the sky and the sounds of anything other than prisoners and metal doors slamming shut started to lose their lustre when his need to see Ian reached unbearable levels. Mickey didn't know what the fuck to say to him other than _sorry_ , but he wasn't going to put off seeing Ian this time. They’d wasted enough fucking time. The threat of going back to prison had really helped Mickey put things in perspective or some philosophical shit like that. He just needed to be around Ian, to be able to touch him freely, talk to him, hold him and marvel at the fact that they were actually still together. Maybe they wouldn't talk at all, and Mickey really didn’t care if they fucked or if they didn’t fuck; he just needed to be in the presence of the person he loved more than anything else in the world. Gay.

Mickey toyed with the idea of driving to Ian's cafe and pulling him out of work, telling anyone who tried to stop him to go fuck themselves. But he had too many deliveries to catch up on after missing hours of work in the morning so he forced himself to finish out the day. He’d see Ian after work. He sighed thinking about Mandy and Svetlana and his brothers back at his place. It would be hard to talk to Ian and apologise or whatever the fuck was going to go down between them. Too many people were living in that fucking house.

With nothing to think about but driving and unloading boxes, Mickey did come up with an idea. He just hoped Ian would go for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of sad that I had to split this chapter but it would have been 10,000 words and that's just TOO LONG. I really, really can't wait for everyone to read what happens after Mickey has his 'idea'. 
> 
> But the next chapter is done so I'll update it in a couple of days. I'M SUPER EXCITED ABOUT IT. I'm pretty sure (hope) you'll like it and let me just say I think after watching Shameless tonight, you'll need it.


	17. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HAPPENING.

Mickey inhaled his third cigarette as he waited across the road from Ian’s work for him to finish his shift. From his vantage point across the street, Mickey could see Ian wiping down counters with that serious fucking expression on his face that always made Mickey smile. He'd thought it was kind of fucking ridiculous back when he'd first met Ian, how seriously the kid took his work, no matter how trivial and unimportant it was. But now he saw it for the fucking adorable character trait it was. All Mickey cared about now was being a free man who was still able to appreciate it.

After twenty minutes or so, the lights inside the cafe went out, and a few minutes later Ian walked out the front door, alongside a girl with colourful hair. Mickey remembered Ian saying something about making a friend who worked the same shift as him. This was probably her. She looked nice enough, but she was going to have to fuck off. Two was company and three was definitely a fucking crowd for what Mickey had planned.

Ian waited as the girl fiddled around with the large glass door to the cafe and Mickey knew from the countless hours he’d spent casing joints for his dad and brothers that she was locking and bolting the door. She gave the door a solid push to test the lock and then her and Ian started walking in the direction of the El station. 

“Yo,” Mickey called out, throwing his cigarette into the gutter. The traffic lights had turned green but the traffic hadn’t increased speed yet. Fuck the traffic. Mickey swaggered across the road, jaywalking towards Ian. He was going to talk to Ian and he wasn’t about to stand around waiting patiently at the lights like a little bitch. 

“M-Mick,” Ian stammered from the footpath, taking a tentative step towards Mickey before stopping. Mickey could see ian was torn between going to him and stubbornly keeping his distance.

Mickey kept walking, closing the distance between them until they were side by side. He rested his hand gently across Ian’s lower back and realised he must have lost his fucking mind to be doing that kind of shit in public. His eyes darted around, waiting for someone to laugh or yell something homophobic but it didn’t happen.

“Hello,” Ian's friend said, looking Mickey up and down with a smug smile on her face.

“Yeah, hi,” Mickey replied bluntly. “Look, I'm sure you're nice and all, but I gotta talk to Ian now.”

Ian scoffed, stepping away from Mickey’s touch. “What the fuck, Mickey?” Ian exclaimed, staring at Mickey with a frown and a petulant expression. He looked back and forth between Mickey and Jez, unsure what to do. “Uh, Jez this is Mickey. Mickey, Jez.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jez said with a smirk on her face. 

Mickey nodded dismissively and turned his attention back to Ian. “Ian,” he said raising his eyebrows, flicking his head in a quick gesture so Ian knew he wanted to talk. If Mickey gave a shit about social graces he would probably find the situation awkward. He didn’t, of course, so the small matter of Ian’s friend was just an inconvenient roadblock in his plan.

“I’m sorry, Jez,” Ian said, his cheeks turning pink in embarrassment. “Talk soon, okay?”

Jez laughed and said goodbye, giving them both playful wiggle of her eyebrows that told Mickey she knew exactly who the fuck he was. 

Ian huffed and shot Mickey an annoyed look as Jez walked away. “I'm so pissed at you, right now Mick,” he snapped, running his hands through his hair. “That was so fucking rude. I don't even want to talk to you, so you may as well-.”

“Yeah, I know it was rude,” Mickey interrupted. “I don't give a fuck. This is more important.” He pulled Ian by the edge of his tshirt, leading him begrudgingly around the corner of the street where he'd already scoped out an alleyway that wasn't too disgusting. Mickey still figured the safest place for a couple of fags to talk about their relationship or whatever the fuck, before nightfall was in an alleyway.

“What the fuck, Mickey?” Ian said, folding his arms and staring past Mickey defiantly. “You can’t just ignore me for days and then show up and tell my friends to leave-.”

“I'm sorry, man,” Mickey said lamely, looking up at Ian and waiting for the redhead to make eye contact.

“You're sorry,” Ian repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Great. Thanks. That makes it okay.”

“Ian!” MIckey snapped his fingers in front of Ian’s face, trying to get his attention. “Fuckin’ look at me” 

Ian turned his head to finally look at Mickey, his face still set in its stubborn, annoyed frown.

“That’s better..” Mickey started, but his body wouldn't let him finish. He leaned into Ian, pressing their foreheads together and running his fingers through the short hairs at the back of his head.

Ian shivered, feeling goosebumps erupting over his skin. “I'm fucking pissed at you…” he whined, disgusted by the softness in his voice and the way his body responded to Mickey’s touch in spite of his anger. 

“Fuckin’ missed you,” Mickey breathed against Ian's lips. _I thought I’d never see you again._ He cursed himself as he felt the hot sting of tears taunting him behind his eyes. “So much.”

Ian straightened himself up and moved Mickeys hands away. “Mickey, no,” he said, his voice cracking under the heavy weight of emotion. “I can't do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“I can't make out with you, and..” Ian sighed, his voice trailed off. He felt his emotions threatening to spill as hot tears down his cheeks. “You fucking ignore me. Like I’m nothing to you.”

 _Shit_. Mickey’s breath caught in his throat, Ian’s words seeming to cause him actual physical pain. _Like I’m nothing to you._ Fucking jesus, Ian was everything to him. This was so much worse than Mickey had anticipated. He bit down painfully on his lip, still sore from the gnawing he’d inflicted upon it that morning. 

“It ain’t like that,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s so far from.. so far from how it is, man. I had.. stuff to take care of.”

“So you just froze me out?” Ian snapped. He shook his head slightly in frustration. “I'm sorry for the fucked up stuff I did in the past, okay? But, I don't deserve-.”

Mickey moved towards Ian again, placing his hands either side of his face. “I'm sorry. It was complicated.” He pressed his lips gently against Ian's, feeling his gut react to the disappointment as Ian refused to respond to the contact. “Ian, please...” 

Ian closed his eyes as the tears that had been welling behind his eyelids fell silently down his cheeks. He was a sucker for Mickey saying please; the word always managed to wrap itself around his heart and squeeze.

“Come with me tonight,” Mickey breathed against Ian's cheek, rubbing his tears away with his thumbs. “Let me make it up to ya.”

“No...” Ian rasped, trying stubbornly to cling to what was left of his pathetic resolve. _Tonight._ Ian repeated the word in his head.What the fuck was Mickey talking about? What was special about tonight? His curiosity finally outweighed his annoyance.“Where are you going?”

Mickey allowed himself to smile slightly as Ian's body relaxed against his. “I got us a hotel room,” he said, moving one hand down down to the small of Ian's back and under Ian’s tshirt caressing the skin there with his fingers. He watched with satisfaction as Ian's eyes snapped open in interest. “It's a real good one. Got all the cable channels and shit. Just us. We can order room service, or get some douchebag on a fuckin’ bike to bring us food from wherever. Whatever the fuck you want.”

“And what about tomorrow?”

Mickey raised an eyebrow in confusion. “The fuck’s tomorrow?”

Ian stared into Mickey’s blue eyes. “Will you be ignoring me for another week?”

Mickey shook his head. “No, fuck..” he said, breaking eye contact. He wanted to just tell Ian that he’d violated parole but for some fucking reason it seemed impossible to say the words. “Fuck, Ian.. I...”

“I don't know Mick,” Ian shrugged, halfheartedly. Ian was torn. His anger and stubbornness was telling him not to go with Mickey on principle, but the thought of the two of them alone in their own hotel room was definitely something he didn’t want to pass up. At the same time he couldn’t stop from himself from wondering would Mickey shut down again if something happened between them? He knew couldn’t handle that for a third time.

Mickey sighed and pressed his fingers against his eyelids, trying to choose his words. “It wasn’t nothin’ like before, when I… panicked or whatever.” He looked around them as though he was worried someone would overhear a secret, before continuing with a lowered voice. “I got a parole violation, aight? Thought I was goin’ back in the joint.”

Ian stared at Mickey with wide eyes, stepping backwards into the wall, as if trying to distance himself from Mickey’s words. “You can’t,” he said shaking his head quickly. “You cannot go back there.”

Mickey sighed. “It’s fine, ay. I ain’t gonna,” he said placing his hands on Ian’s shoulders, trying to reassure him. “Just gotta lay off the sauce a bit, that's all. Promise.”

The thought of Mickey back in prison was causing nausea to bubble in his stomach. They’d almost lost each other and Ian had had absolutely no idea. He couldn’t lose Mickey, again. “Fuck,” Ian breathed. “Fucking hell, Mickey. You need to be more careful.”

“You coming with me or not?” Mickey asked, ignoring Ian’s chiding. The key to getting Ian to accept was making him think he was missing out. He pulled out his phone. “I’ll text you the address. I’ll be there and if you wanna come, then-.”

“Okay.”

Fucking bingo. Mickey looked down at the ground briefly to hide his smirk. “Got your pills and shit? Some spare clothes?”

Ian nodded. “There’s some in my bag.”

“Let's go then.”

* * *

Ian groaned in pleasure, almost involuntarily, as he sank down on his back on the bed in their hotel room. He was seriously considering jumping up and down on the bed like he was eight years old on a trampoline. Apparantly a luxury hotel room was a very effective cure for even the worst of Ian’s moods. “This bed is amazing, Mick,” he said, with a gleeful laugh. “The whole room is great. Did it cost bank?”

Mickey smirked in satisfaction as he took in Ian’s wide grin. Of course, Ian in his boxers, starfished on the king sized bed didn’t hurt either. “Yeah, pretty fuckin’ expensive, ay,” he said with a nod. “I used some of the Kenyatta money. Few hundred won’t be missed.”

Ian laughed, bucking his hips so he was bouncing on his back. “Better make sure to thank Mandy then.”

“Fuck that. This was my fuckin’ idea,” Mickey laughed, stretching out on the bed next to Ian. 

“What made you think of doing this, anyway?”

Mickey shrugged like it was no big deal, knowing that it actually was _kind of a big deal_. They'd never done anything like this together, before. Not really. It felt so adult and so far removed from how everything had started between them. “Seemed like the opposite of goin’ back to prison,” he mused.

Ian hummed, thinking this over. “The opposite of going back to prison,” he said, his voice playful, “would be frollicking in a wide, open meadow.”

Mickey huffed a laugh. “Well then, how about you go and frolic in your fuckin’ wide, open meadow and I’ll sleep in this sweet arse bed in _my_ hotel room.”

Ian laughed, loving the fact that Mickey was so easy to rile. They should really talk, Ian knew that. But being here with Mickey, just the two of them, knowing that Mickey could have just as easily been in prison, was enough at that moment.

“Also, I don’t fuckin’ frolic.”

“I’d like to see you frolic,” Ian said blithely, running his hands through his hair. “I’d pay money to see it.”

“Frolicking,” Mickey repeated the word, with an amused snort. “What the fuck kinda gay shit is that, anyway?”

“You’re pretty good at a lot of other gay shit, Mick,” Ian teased. “Don’t write it off.”

Mickey laughed in spite of himself. “Okay, you need to shut the fuck up.”

 _Or what_ , Ian wanted to say but he stopped himself because he didn't want to push his luck. He decided to change the subject instead. “How long do you think our food will take to arrive?”

“Dunno,” Mickey said, idly tapping his fingers on his chest. “I just hope this bike riding hipster motherfucker is fit. He got four places to collect from and I don’t want my food turnin’ up cold.”

“So precious,” Ian said with a smirk.

Mickey gave Ian’s shoulder a playful push as a comfortable silence settled over them. He could feel the warmth radiating from Ian’s body next to him. “Thought this would be nice, ay,” Mickey said quietly, gesturing around the bedroom with his hand. “Just the two of us.”

“It is,” Ian murmured. 

Mickey hummed in agreement and turned his head to look at Ian. Their eyes met and Mickey reached out, touching Ian’s face. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling shakily as he savoured the feeling of Ian under his fingertips. Mickey couldn’t believe they’d almost lost each other again. What was even harder to believe was the fact they were in a nice hotel, alone, without an annoying wife, or bossy sister or his idiot brothers to interrupt. And Ian was looking at him, so fucking beautiful and peaceful. They were together. Fuck, it was a lot to take in.

Mickey moved his fingers down to Ian’s chest, feeling Ian’s breath hitch underneath his touch. Ian felt beautiful underneath his fingertips; solid, and whole and real. Ian felt like home, like Mickey’s home. Mickey leaned in closer to Ian and placed kisses over Ian’s jaw and neck.

Ian’s body shuddered underneath Mickey's lips. “Mick…” he gasped.

Mickey worked at the soft skin of Ian’s neck, sucking pink marks into the pale flesh. Ian tasted so good, perfect, just like he'd remembered. But it wasn't enough. The kisses and the chaste hugs that they’d shared recently were no longer enough. Mickey wanted more, was ready for more. He needed them to be closer. He rolled on top of Ian, straddling him and ripped off his own tshirt and threw it somewhere in the room behind him.

Mickey leaned down and kissed Ian on the lips, sucking gently on his bottom lip as he pulled his lips away. 

“I missed you,” Ian said, staring intently into Mickey's eyes.

A smile tickled the corners of Mickey's mouth. “Missed you too.” He leaned down and kissed Ian once more. He ran his tongue along the edge of Ian's bottom lip, and Ian responded, his mouth opening and their tongues moving together. Ian groaned deep in his throat, and Mickey savoured the delicious feeling as the sound of Ian’s pleasure hummed against his lips.

“You sure about this?” Ian rasped, pulling himself away from Mickey’s eager lips.

“Mmmm,” Mickey murmured, managing a nod of his head as he tried to form words. “Want you.”

Ian ran his hands up and down Mickey's sides, feathering his fingers over Mickey's skin. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered. “I can't believe you're real.”

Fuck. That did it for Mickey. He pulled Ian's tank top over his head, removing it ungracefully and kissed him again, hungrily this time. There were teeth and tongues and biting of lips but neither of them cared. 

Mickey moaned as Ian grabbed at handfuls of his arse, his hole practically tingling as Ian's fingers danced around the entrance. Jesus christ, Mickey was so fucking horny. Whatever happened between them was going to be quick.

“You're amazing, Mick,” Ian murmured. “Even better than I remember.” With one smooth motion, he flipped them both over, so their roles had reversed and Ian was on top of Mickey. “This okay?” Ian asked.

“Mmmyep,” Mickey breathed against Ian’s lips.

Ian's hips started rocking against Mickey, their dicks massaging each other under their clothes. Mickey was barely keeping it together as he continued kissing Ian. The sensation of their dicks pressed together was too much. It had been too long. One way or another he needed Ian inside him. He pulled his mouth away from Ian's, and looked up at his lips all red and plump and beautiful from kissing. Ian's dick twitched tauntingly against him.

“Fuck Ian, I..” Mickey cupped his hand over Ian's cock, relishing the feeling of it in his hand, warm and hard and twitching. Mickey closed his eyes and let his mind fill with the memories of it. 

Mickey bucked his hips and flipped them over again; one last play for dominance. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at Ian who smiled. Mickey had won. He maneuvered himself down onto the floor between Ian's legs, running his hands down Ian's chest as he positioned himself on his knees at the edge of the bed. His fingers tugged at the waist band of Ian's boxers, and Ian lifted his hips so Mickey could remove them.

Ian's dick sprung out past the elastic, laying stiff and wanting against his stomach, twitching in a way that Mickey found fucking delicious. 

“Fuck,” Mickey gasped, as his eyes drank in Ian’s cock. It was somehow better than Mickey had imagined it. A thing of fucking beauty. His mouth was actually watering at the sight of it.

Ian propped himself up on his elbows. “Wanna watch you,” he rasped.

“Mmmm.” Mickey leaned over and licked a stripe up Ian's dick. He gasped, feeling the heady familiarity of it underneath his tongue. Mickey laved teasingly at it, working his way from the base up to Ian's slit, his hot breath teasing in between licks.

“Oh god, Mickey. Fuck-.” Ian let out a gasp and started rocking his hips toward Mickey's lips. “Wanna fuck your mouth.”

Mickey shuddered at Ian's desire and wrapped his mouth around the head of Ian's dick, bobbing his head and gently sucking at him, taking in as much of him as he could. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Ian's shaft and pumped at his dick in time with his mouth, drawing moans of pleasure from Ian each time.

Ian laced his fingers in Mickey's hair, pushing down at his head in a rocking motion. “Mick-.”

“Missed your dick,” Mickey gasped removing his lips briefly to catch his breath. God how he had missed Ian's dick. It was so fucking perfect. The perfect size, shape. He fucking loved the way it fit into his mouth, like it existed just for him. He wrapped his lips around it again and continued sucking in a long, languid motion, his tongue darting teasingly at the tip. Mickey could feel the precum leaking slowly out of his own cock as his body rocked in time with his mouth fucking Ian's cock, the edge of the mattress rubbing rhythmically at Mickey’s groin sending waves of pleasure over his body.

“So good. You're so good, Mick,” Ian gasped, fucking harder into Mickey's mouth..

Mickey was close, so close. The mattress was providing irresistible friction and it really had been too long. There was no way he was going to last any longer than a minute more. Not with Ian's perfect fucking cock in his mouth. Mickey could almost feel himself leaving his body and he wouldn't have minded if this was how he died - sucking Ian's dick like he was fucking born to do it. 

“Gonna come soon,” Ian gasped.

Mickey hummed in agreement and the vibration must have sent Ian over the edge because Mickey's mouth was suddenly filled with Ian's warm, salty release, pulsating against his tongue and down his throat as he swallowed. 

“Fuck…” Ian whined, thrusting his dick further into Mickey’s mouth as he chased his orgasm.

Mickey groaned through Ian's ejaculation as he trembled with his own orgasm and came clumsily half in his boxers and half against the edge of the bed.

“Jesus,” Ian groaned, his body shuddering as the final waves of his orgasm washed over him.

Mickey sat back on his knees, and threw his head back as he tried to catch his breath. He grabbed his tshirt from the floor and wiped his mouth and chin. 

“Did you…?” Ian asked breathlessly and Mickey nodded, crawling onto the bed next to Ian. Mickey’s boxers were wet and clammy against his skin but he couldn't bring himself to give a shit.

“That was..” Ian started but didn't finish his sentence. Words couldn’t really describe it.

“Mmm… it was,” Mickey sighed snuggling against Ian. 

“Mickey, I..” _I love you_ , Ian wanted to say. It was long overdue but he'd never said it before - to anyone - and the words caught in his throat, almost as if his mouth didn't know how to make the sounds.

Mickey turned Ian's head to face him and kissed him lazily. 

“I can taste myself,” Ian said with a smirk.

“Sorry,” Mickey mumbled. But he wasn't, not at all. 

“I like it,” Ian shrugged. “It’s hot.”

Mickey laughed quietly, a smile plastered awkwardly on his lips that he was unable to temper. He looked at Ian, laying there next to him sleepy and blissed out and fucking gorgeous and he didn’t think there was anything anyone could do or say to ruin his mood. 

* * *

“Nothin better than sitting in a hotel room in your underwear drinking beer and eatin’ ribs,” Mickey proclaimed, burping loudly and tossing a finished rib bone into their empty pizza box.

“Especially when the room is as nice as this one,” Ian replied absently, as he very noisily sucked barbecue sauce off his fingers.

Mickey snorted, feeling the warm rush of embarrassment rising in his cheeks. “Don’t ever say I don’t know how to show you a good time,” he laughed, smirking at Ian and noticing the barbecue sauce smeared sexily on his lips. “Look at you, you’re a fuckin’ hot mess.”

Ian laughed and awkwardly licked around his mouth in an attempt to remove the sauce.

Mickey leaned over, rubbing his thumb against Ian’s bottom lip and kissed the sauce from his mouth. “Fucking love barbecue sauce,” he growled huskily, licking at his own lips. He leaned in to meet Ian’s mouth again, his stomach somersalting as Ian parted his lips and returned the kiss.

Ian ran his fingers through Mickey’s hair, trying to recapture the desire from earlier. Everything was great. They were together, being intimate in a beautiful hotel room. But Ian couldn’t stop thinking about the past five days and how Mickey had ignored all Ian’s messages and the 112 calls he’d placed to Mickey’s phone and how the entire time Mickey had thought he was going to prison and he still hadn’t picked up-

“Yo,” Mickey said, pulling back to relax on his side of the couch. He waved a hand in front of Ian’s eyes, trying to break his blank stare. “You got your thinkin’ face on, man.”

Ian shook his head quickly and blinked, trying to lurch himself back to reality. He had been so lost in his own head, he hadn’t even noticed that Mickey had stopped kissing him. As much as Ian wanted to avoid it, he knew the time had come for them to talk.

“Mick..” Ian said quietly, staring down at his lap.

Mickey sighed. “I know, man. We gotta talk about our shit.”

Ian nodded, trying to decide where to start. “You weren’t going to say goodbye to me before you went back to prison,” he said finally.

Mickey froze. Ian was right, but hearing him say the actual words was fucking nauseating. Mickey swallowed thickly, trying to squash the feelings of guilt but it was fucking pointless. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and picked absently at the label on his beer bottle. “You’re right, man,” he eventually admitted. “I wasn’t gonna say goodbye.”

Ian was silent for a minute. “So you want to be with me, but you couldn’t even be bothered saying goodbye to me when you thought you were going back to prison?” He said flatly, staring straight ahead, eyes focused on the movie playing silently on the tv.

“Fuck..” Mickey exhaled. He leaned forward, rubbing his forehead with his palm. “I _know_ I fucked up, Ian.”

Ian nodded slightly. “But that still doesn’t tell me why,” he said with a shrug. “It doesn’t explain why you ignored my phone calls and my texts.”

“Ian…”

“I’m sick of being pushed and pulled, Mickey.”

“I know,” Mickey muttered in frustration. “Fuck.. I…” He was really having trouble finding his words, because he hadn’t spent enough time thinking about what he was going to say to fix things between him and Ian. Sorry wasn’t good enough. It was never going to be good enough and he fucking knew that. 

“I'm sorry for the times I disappeared on you,” Ian said, staring up at the ceiling. “It sucks to be on the receiving end of that. But.. I _thought_ we were trying to be better. I'm trying to be better..”

“We are,” Mickey interrupted. “I'm tryin’, too.”

Ian waited for Mickey to say something, anything, that would help him understand why he’d disappeared from his life for five days. “I thought I could get past being angry.. but I don’t know,” he sighed, defeat evident in his voice. “Maybe I should just go.” Ian started to stand, but Mickey’s arm shot out and grabbed Ian’s bicep, pulling him back down to the couch.

“I don’t want you to fucking go, Ian!” Mickey said, almost yelling. He sighed, making a conscious effort to lower his voice. “I don’t want you to go. Fuck.. I want you to stay.”

Ian turned to face Mickey, who was still staring mindlessly at the bottle in his hand. “So, why-.”

“Cos I couldn’t fucking say goodbye to you,” Mickey muttered. “Not again.”

Ian frowned in confusion, still unable to make sense of any of this.

“Ignoring you like I did.. I fucking felt like shit, Ian. And I know I hurt you. Fuck, I just want to fix this shit,” Mickey continued, rubbing at his forehead with two fingers. “But I knew if I saw you, I couldn’t do goodbye. I woulda done something stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Like not gone back to prison.”

“I don’t get it,” Ian sighed, thinking again about just leaving and going home.

“Cos I woulda wanted to just take off. With you,” Mickey licked his lips. He sighed and leaned back against the couch. “Just said fuck it and got out of this fuckin’ city once and for all. But I ain’t stupid. I know that would have been a fuckin’ bad idea.”

“So you stayed away.”

Mickey nodded, finally making eye contact with Ian. Blue meeting green.

Ian felt his anger towards Mickey dissolving in spite of himself. “Please, just.. don’t fucking do it again, Mick.”

“I ain't planning on it.”

Ian huffed and relaxed back onto the couch, more annoyed at himself for being powerless to stay angry at Mickey. 

“It was fuck all to do with me not wanting to say goodbye, Gallagher. You gotta know that.”

“I know.”

“Cos all I thought about was you,” Mickey said, scraping his teeth against his bottom lip. “Soon as I found out I wasn't going back in, all I wanted was to see ya.

Ian nodded, picking up the remote control for the tv and fiddling mindlessly with the buttons. “And here we are”

“Here we are,” Mickey repeated with a nod. 

There was silence as they sat stubbornly on the couch without so much as a sideways glance.

Mickey was the first to break the silence. “Look if you wanna go home, I get it.”

Ian shook his head.

“Then stay here with me,” Mickey said softly, trying to hide smile that threatened to envelope his face. He leaned in close to Ian, running his hands over Ian's bare chest. “Stay. We can be together. Without all the fuckin’ chaos.”

 _Together._ Ian’s stomach fluttered with butterflies as Mickey said that one word. This was what Ian had wanted for two years; for him and Mickey to be _together_ again. 

“You don’t have to be that guy, Mick,” Ian said, capturing Mickey’s fingers in his own hand as the brushed against his chest. “The guy that violates parole and ends up back in prison. You’re not that guy.”

Mickey shrugged, looking away. “Don’t wanna be that guy,” he muttered. 

“You’re not him,” Ian repeated, squeezing Mickey’s fingers. “You’re better than that.”

Mickey swallowed, trying to rid himself of the lump that had formed in his throat. He leaned into Ian and kissed him, pressing their foreheads together.

“You’re not going back to prison, Mick. Ever,” Ian deadpanned, his voice serious.

Mickey laughed against Ian’s lips, amused by the bossiness in Ian's voice. “The fuck you gonna do, tough guy?”

“Don’t know,” Ian shrugged. He hadn't thought that far ahead, but he felt like it was a promise he needed to make regardless. “Whatever I need to. ”

“Keepin’ me on the straight and narrow, huh?” Mickey smirked, laughing and grabbing at Ian's ribs. “This mean you forgive me?”

“Guess so.” Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey and pulled him down over his chest and slowly kissed him, tasting their dinner on Mickey’s lips and tongue. Mickey exhaled in pleasure, thinking about how long it had taken them to get here. It was technically only three months, but at the same time it felt like it had taken them five fucking years. Whatever, it really didn’t matter. All Mickey knew was the wait had been fucking worth it.

They remained on the hotel room couch, Mickey’s body draped over Ian’s, making out lazily and watching movies in their own little chaos-free corner of the world.

* * *

Mickey tore his lips away from Ian’s with a wet, smacking sound, his breath ragged and heat pooling in his cheeks. His hips were thrusting on their own, like they had come to life with the sole purpose of fucking Ian’s hand. He stared hungrily down at Ian’s fingers wrapped around their dicks, working them both at the same time, the pre-cum pumping sporadically out from their slits at the same time. It was fucking beautiful.

“Ian.. fuck-,” Mickey gasped, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. “Mm’gonna.. soon.”

Ian used his free hand to grip Mickey’s hair, pulling him back towards him. “Me too..” he rasped, sucking aggressively at Mickey’s neck. “God, Mick.. Waited for you.. so long.”

Their lips met once more, teeth scraping against skin as they kissed desperately, their mouths searching for something, anything, wanting more, as Ian's hand brought them both to the edge of orgasm.

“Fuck.. you're beautiful, Mick.. jesus,” Ian stammered. His legs were twitching on their own, he was so close to coming. He reached behind Mickey with his free hand and grabbed at his arse cheek, kneading it between his fingers. “Your arse.. oh my god.. fuck”

Mickey whimpered as fingers danced teasingly at his hole. “I.. Ian, I..,” _I love you,_ the words waited on the tip of Mickey’s tongue.

“Missed this.. you.. everything.. god,” Ian whined, in between panting breaths. He wasn't going to last.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey groaned as his toes began to tingle with the beginnings of his orgasm. “Soon.. any second.”

Ian's hand pumping at his dick and his fingers playing with Mickey’s arse was too much. Mickey groaned and threw his head back as his orgasm rolled over him from his toes to his dick, leaving goosebumps on his skin. He watched as his come spilled all over his chest and Ian’s fingers.

“Uhhh,” Ian groaned and he came with a whimper seconds later. 

Ian’s hand and their dicks were a mess of come and Mickey couldn’t tell where his ended and Ian’s began. It was possibly the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen in his life. That visual wasn’t going to leave Mickey any time soon.

“Mick,” Ian breathed, pulling Mickey towards him. Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian and trailed kisses over his neck and jaw. 

“Mmmm,” Mickey murmured, nuzzling into Ian’s neck before shifting and laying back down on their hotel bed. He wanted to say more, but he didn’t trust his mouth at that moment. He’d been so fucking close to telling Ian that he loved him. But fuck, he really was not ready to say that shit again. Things seemed to be going great between them, and he wasn’t prepared for it to all blow up in his face again once he said those three little words. Maybe one day he’d say it again. Today was not that day.

Ian stood up and walked to the bathroom, returning with a towel. He wiped at himself and then threw the towel to Mickey who did the same.

“I would not want to see this room under a blacklight right now,” Mickey snorted, tossing the dirty towel across the room. “So much jizz on this bed, it would look like a fucking constellation.”

Ian laughed and flopped down next to Mickey in bed, wrapping his arms around him as Mickey shifted on his side to face him. Ian leaned forward, pressing his lips against Mickey’s and they kissed slowly and without urgency. Ian was having a hard time believing that just that morning he’d been convinced that things were over between them, only for them to now be naked, making out in the bed of their own hotel room. Were they were back together? Ian really wanted to ask Mickey if they were boyfriends again but at the same time, he didn’t want to tempt fate. Maybe he’d wait and see whether Mickey freaked out again after they went back home. For some reason he found himself worrying that Mickey would have second thoughts about them once they got back to the Southside. It was one thing for them to be together in this room, a world away from their actual lives; what if once they got back home and everything was real again, Mickey decided it was all too much? Ian resolved to wait a few days and see if Mickey seemed okay and then he’d try and find out what was going on between them.

Mickey pulled himself away from Ian’s lips and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’d kill for a fuckin’ smoke right now,” he muttered with a small laugh.

Ian shook his head. “Stay,” he whispered, looking into Mickey’s eyes. “Don’t get up.”

“I’m stayin’,” Mickey replied, rubbing his thumb over Ian’s flushed cheek. _I’m staying._ Those two simple words that were so heavy with meaning. Mickey hoped that Ian could see that. “M’not goin’ anywhere.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, letting their whispered words settle over them, both of them sleepy from their food and beer and sex. 

“Tell me what you would like for your birthday, Mick” Ian murmured quietly, eyes closed, his fingers feathering softly over Mickey’s ribs.

Mickey snorted. “I ain't five years old, man,” he groused, immediately regretting the mocking tone in his voice. He wondered if he’d ever get used to someone other than Mandy giving a shit about him.

Ian sighed. “No.. I just..” he fought the urge to give in to sleep. “It’s your birthday soon and your last one was spent in prison.”

Mickey ran a hand through his hair, shuddering as he realised how close he’d come to spending his upcoming birthday in prison too. “Prison birthday’s ain't all bad,” he said defensively, with a shrug.

Ian opened his eyes, his interest piqued. “Really? Like with visitors and stuff?”

“No visitors,” Mickey laughed humourlessly and shook his head. “But usually you get some DIY prison gifts and shit. This guy, Wlazlo, made moonshine and I got me some of that.”

Ian nodded. “That’s cool.”

“Didn’t even have to fuckin’ share it,” Mickey added with a grin.

Ian hummed, realising how little he actually knew about Mickey’s life in prison. 

“Got given a pile of books that some of the others had finished with,” Mickey continued. “Left ‘em behind though. Figured there’d be other douchebags needed ‘em more than I did.”

Ian nodded, snuggling closer to Mickey so their chests were touching. 

Mickey chewed absently on his bottom lip. “Kinda wish I’d kept them,” he said vaguely. 

“I’m glad your birthday didn’t completely suck, Mick,” Ian murmured quietly against Mickey’s shoulder. 

“Biggest birthday celebration I ever got, ay.”

Ian nodded silently, feeling a strange mixture of emotions after hearing about Mickey’s prison birthday. He was relieved to hear that it hadn’t been as lonely or miserable as Ian had imagined it to be, but he hadn’t considered for a second that a birthday spent in prison might have been the most celebrated birthday Mickey had ever had. He frowned, thinking it was simultaneously one of the saddest and most beautiful things he had ever heard.

“I don’t want to go home,” Ian whined quietly after a few minutes silence.

Mickey sighed deeply. “Me either,” he murmured, lifting Ian’s head gently so he could kiss him on the lips. “Wanna stay here. Forever.”

“I don’t think we could afford that,” Ian quipped, dryly.

“Not if you want me to stay outta the can,” Mickey sniggered, sliding a hand over Ian’s naked hip and resting it at the small of his back.

“You know.. all this,” Ian started, gesturing in the air surrounding them, with his hand, “is probably the most romantic thing you've ever done.”

Mickey snorted in embarrassment. “Fuck off,” he drawled.

“You can pretend like it wasn't, but you know I'm right,” Ian continued. “This was a romantic gesture, Mick.”

“Yeah, well,” Mickey grumbled. “Be the last time I ever do anything like this if you don't shut the fuck up about romance.”

Ian laughed, a slow smile spreading over his lips. “Thanks for this, Mick.”

Mickey shrugged, nuzzling his face into Ian’s neck to hide his embarrassment. “No big deal.”

Ian didn’t protest. They both knew it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I uploaded this one a little later than I had promised. I'm a perfectionist so I kept editing and editing until the words were no longer words but random clusters of characters on the screen. That's when I decided to finally hit post. I'm sorry! Don't hate me. 
> 
> I'm kind of nervous about this, because it's really the first time I've written sexy times. I hope it was okay.
> 
> But it couldn't have been worse than the 7x07 dub-con 'sex scene' between Ian and whatshisface, right? RIGHT?!??!
> 
> Thankyou SO MUCH for the comments on the previous chapter! I am so pleased that Mickey's anxiety was felt!! I'm sorry I took you on a rollercoaster but I'm glad the rollercoaster-ness came across. Honestly I am floored by the comments! I am humbled and I love you guys!


	18. Abstinence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG YOU GUYS! I'm sorry for not updating this bad boy in so looooong. Truth be told, 7x10 and 7x11 really messed me up and I haven't been able to think about our two favourite gays without getting upset, and thus I haven't been able to write. 
> 
> But I did think about this fic ~alot~ which is a good enough apology for neglectful Ian Gallagher, and I now have my ~shit together~ I can bring you this epic, behemoth of a chapter.
> 
> It's a biggun! Look at that tiny scrollbar -->
> 
> And can you believe I had to cut bits out?

Mickey sighed, absently flicking through the channels on their television. Cooking shows. Reality tv. Sport. Home shopping. Channel after channel of mindless shit. He wondered what the fucking point of their fifty inch tv was when there was never anything worth watching. At least they hadn’t had to pay for the damn thing, so there was that. Small mercies. Still, that knowledge did nothing to remedy the fact that he was fucking bored. Ian wasn’t there and Mickey was restless. He hated this about himself. That when Ian wasn’t around he felt bored, lacking. Like he was missing a fucking limb or some shit. It was simultaneously one of the worst and best things about being in a relationship; the fact that he missed Ian when he wasn’t around and the very fact that Ian was his to miss in the first place.

That he had promised Ian he’d lay off the booze a bit was only making matters fifty fucking times worse.

“Fucking bullshit,” he muttered to himself.

“What the fuck is your problem now?” Mandy said with a huff, looking up from their clunky old laptop.

Mickey knitted his eyebrows in confusion. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Oh,” he grumbled. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Mandy hummed, screwing her nose up in concentration as she continued typing on the laptop, stopping every now and then to write something down on a piece of paper. “So where’s Ian?” she asked, absently, making conversation and not really caring about the answer.

Mickey threw the remote control onto the coffee table, his bare feet soon following, using the table as a footrest. “Gallagher family dinner or some fucking shit.”

“Really?” Mandy stopped typing, her eyebrows raised in curiosity. “And he didn’t invite you?”

Mickey shrugged. “He invited me.”

“So why are you here?”

“Declined the invitation,” Mickey replied, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He’d figured listening to Ian’s siblings moaning and groaning about their lives would be worse than sitting around home bored out of his fucking mind. And Ian had wanted him to take the money from the dry cleaning scam, which he was sure would only end in fifty fucking questions and condescending eyerolls from Fiona and Lip. He needed alcohol to deal with that shit, so he’d stayed at home instead. Ian couldn’t have it both ways.

Mandy stopped typing and looked up from the laptop, meeting her brother’s eyes. “But I thought you two were…” she paused, treading carefully, unsure how to define their relationship. If Mickey was any other person on earth she would have said any number of descriptors; boyfriends, back together, dating, whatever. But Mickey was Mickey and he was in a grumpier mood than usual. “I thought you two were.. you know-.”

Mickey licked his bottom lip and scraped his teeth over the flesh. “Together,” he finished her sentence. “Yeah, we are.”

“And?”

“And we don’t need to do every fucking thing together, _jesus_ ,” Mickey leaned forward on the couch, running a hand through his hair as rogue strands fell before his eyes. “We ain't joined at the hip.”

Mandy closed her eyes and sighed before continuing. “You know that kind of family shit is important to him, Mick.”

Mickey sighed. He did know that. And he had seen the look of disappointment on Ian’s face when he’d invited him and Mickey had screwed his face up in disgust. “What’s your fuckin’ point?”

“I don’t know. Just that if you really want things to work out this time, maybe you need to do shit that you don’t want to sometimes,” Mandy said shrugging. She knew she had poked the bear, and she was probably about to receive a verbal tirade from her brother. But, fuck it; she cared about the feelings of her best friend as well as Mickey. “Fucking compromise. Like an actual adult.”

Mickey huffed and sank back into the couch, his arms folded over his chest. What the fuck did Mandy know? She wasn’t around when Ian had been at his worst, when Mickey had taken him to doctor's appointments and picked up his prescriptions and shit. She wasn’t around when caring for Ian and being a good boyfriend had all blown up in his face. “Thanks for the fuckin’ relationship advice, Dr Phil,” he snapped at his sister. 

“Really?” Mandy raised her eyebrows and shook her head in disdain at Mickey’s ridiculous insult.

“Oprah, then,” he muttered. “Whatever the fuck.” Fuck, he hated it when they talked about relationship bullshit when he was sober. It wasn’t as hard as it used to be, but it still wasn’t easy or in any way pleasant. He’d kill for a fucking beer or ten. Fucking parole piss-test shit.

Mandy huffed a laugh and returned to the work she was doing on the laptop. Mickey watched her for a few minutes, wondering what she was doing. He was irritable and she was sitting there chill as fuck, typing away and making notes like she didn’t have a care in the world. God she pissed him off sometimes.

“You studyin’?” Mickey asked, finally. She was probably doing her GHD or some crap. Maybe he could help her with the maths. Christ, he really was fucking bored. 

“Making a list of apartments for me and Ian to check out,” Mandy replied, without looking up from the screen.

“Oh.” The words hit Mickey in the gut as though he’d been punched. “You still on that stupid idea?”

“Yes, douchebag. I don’t want to live here anymore than Ian wants to live at his place.”

Mickey huffed in surprise as his sister’s words stung him again. “He said that?”

Mandy nodded, only half invested in this conversation with her brother.

“Like, recently?” Mickey continued, feeling his heart rate increase involuntarily and annoyingly in his chest. “He said that? That he doesn’t want to live at his place?”

Mandy sighed, finally looking up at Mickey. “We talked about moving out again the other day. And he said he wants his own room,” she said, blithely. “Guess he’s sick of being nearly twenty years old and sharing with fifty of his brothers.”

“Show me the fuckin’ list,” Mickey snapped his fingers impatiently and held out his hand. 

Mandy rolled her eyes, balling up the paper and throwing it towards Mickey.

Mickey caught the projectile, smoothing the crumpled paper out on his lap. He did not like what he saw. Not one bit. The addresses were all neighbourhoods that were miles away. Literally fucking miles. Multiple El stops. 

“North Lawndale?” he sputtered in disbelief. “The fuck you wanna go movin’ there for? That shithole is almost as bad as this one.”

Mandy shrugged. “It’s not the southside.”

“So fucking what?” Mickey snapped. “It’s still a shithole. The fuck’s the point?”

“Well, what’s the fucking point of going to all the effort of moving only to stay in Canaryville, arsehole?”

 _Jesus fucking christ_ , Mickey cursed inwardly as he scanned the remainder of the list. “Half these places are almost in Cicero.”

“We can barely afford them, anyway,” Mandy said sighing deeply, blowing the hair from her eyes. “Chicago is fucking expensive compared to Indianapolis.”

Mickey snorted. “Well you ain’t movin’ back there, Mands. That ain’t gonna happen.”

“You gonna stop me this time?” she snapped, goading her brother.

“Yes I’m gonna fuckin’ stop you this time,” Mickey half-yelled, sitting forward on the couch, eyebrows raised. “Watch me.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “Simmer down, douchebag. I’m not moving back to Indiana. And if you’re worried about seeing Ian, these places are only two El’s away.”

“Yeah and it will take a fuckin’ hour and a half each way. You know what those piece of shit trains are like.”

Mickey balled up Mandy’s list again and pelted it in her general direction. The paper hit his sister on the leg and fell on the floor. 

“I’m going to fucking bed,” Mickey grumbled, standing up from the couch with a huff and stomping petulantly to his room, kicking open his pulled-to bedroom door in the process.

Mickey flopped face first down onto his bed and sighed, loudly and deeply into his pillow. Ian was moving away and taking his sister with him. 

_Fuck._

Mickey had liked the idea of Ian and Mandy living together when he’d thought he was going back to the joint. He’d felt better knowing that they’d both be looking out for each other. But Mickey wasn’t going anywhere now, and there was really no fucking reason why Ian or Mandy had to, either. Especially Ian. 

_It’s only two El’s away._

Fuck that. The El was slow as shit. It may as well be the fucking moon, as far as Mickey was concerned. 

He rolled onto his back and allowed his eyes to wander around the room, taking in every crack, every stain, every dent in the wall. He could almost account for every last one of them from memory alone. So much fucking shit had happened in this room. _This house_. Hell, he and Ian had pretty much gotten together in this room. But bad shit had happened too. Lots of it. Mickey swallowed heavily, pushing those memories to the back of his mind where they belonged. Fuck, it wasn’t just Ian and Mandy who could do with a change of scenery. Mickey would love to fucking move from this dump, too. Away from fucking Chicago, even. But there was Svetlana and the kid to think about. As much as his wife irritated him, she was still family and you didn’t fucking abandon family. Whether he liked it or not - and he didn't, he definitely didn't - he was stuck with her for the foreseeable future. 

Still, he hadn’t been joking when he’d told Mandy he’d love to burn the house down. Almost nothing would make him happier. Maybe he could? Maybe he could burn it down and they could all collect the insurance and move somewhere better. Was the house even insured? If not, he could organise some insurance for it, wait a few months, then burn it to the fucking ground. Make it look like an accident, a radiator left on, someone smoking a cigarette in bed. 

Mickeys head was swimming like it always did whenever a new idea came to mind. The steps he'd need to take to pull off insurance fraud, leading him down the familiar rabbit hole of disorganised crime. He managed to stop himself as he imagined the look on Ian’s face if he went through with the plan and laughed, shaking the idea out of his head. It wasn’t going to happen. It couldn't happen. It would just be fucking nice, is all.

He rolled off the bed, stripping down to his boxers and climbed underneath the covers. He wondered what Ian was doing over at his place. Probably listening to Fiona complain about how hard her life is, or Lip’s boring arse stories from the Ivory fucking Tower or some shit. It was definitely the kind of conversation Mickey could live without. Especially when he was fucking sober. Those fucking Gallaghers. He disliked Ian's family almost has much as he loved Ian. But, fuck. Mandy was fucking right; he should have gone around there with Ian. If he wanted them have a real fucking relationship - and he fucking did - then he was going to have to suck it up and endure Ian's annoying fucking family as well. Alcohol or no.

Mickey groaned loudly at the realisation, and shut his sober eyes tight, willing sleep to come.

* * *

“So, are you and Mickey back together?” Jez asked as she and Ian rummaged in the cafe storeroom for supplies. “You seem a lot happier since the night he showed up here after work.”

Ian thought about that for a second. “I don't know.. Maybe?” He answered with a scrunch of his nose. “We haven't talked about it.”

“Did you hook up?”

“Umm..” Ian felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment. This wasn't the kind of conversation he usually had with people. The only person he talked to about relationship topics was Mandy but they both drew the line at discussing his and Mickey's sex life. He nodded quickly and hoped Jez noticed.

“You're _so_ back together,” Jez replied, scooping bags of coffee beans into her arms.

“Because we fooled around?” Ian asked, picking up the remainder of the bags. He shook his head. “No, it's more complicated than that. Always has been.” Ian thought of Mickey’s reluctance to go to his place for dinner. Maybe they were still _on the way_ to getting back together, and not actually together yet. Or maybe Mickey would never want to have anything to do with the rest of his family. Ian didn’t know what was worse. Both possibilities stung, and he felt the familiar lump threatening to form in his throat.

Jez shook her head. “Because I could tell he really, really likes you. It’s obvious.” 

Ian froze, an involuntary grin spread wide across his face, his stomach filling him with a warm, pleasant surge of emotion. “Really?”

“He looked at you like you're the only person in the world,” she sighed. “You’re lucky.”

Ian blushed, the lump in his throat dwarfed by his heart beating loudly but pleasantly in his chest as his stomach flipped and swirled in the best way.

“He's hot, too,” Jez added, nudging Ian in the ribs as best she could with her arms full of coffee beans.

Ian blushed, reaching an arm out to the top shelf to retrieve the coffee beans that Jez couldn't reach. “I know he is.”

“Kinda grumpy,” she added with a laugh. “But it's actually… endearing.”

Ian snorted his laughter, as he hoisted the beans under his arm and reached up for another one. He couldn't help smiling at Jez’s analysis of Mickey. “His grumpiness is part of his allure.” Ian turned to look at Jez, before continuing. “About the other night.. he's like that with everyone, by the way.. don't take it personally or anything.”

Jez shrugged, unbothered. “I figured,” she said matter-of-fact. “No offence, taken.”

“He told me he thinks you seem cool, and that’s a compliment coming from Mickey.”

“We should all hang out sometime,” Jez offered as they walked back down the narrow hallway to the main cafe area. “Grab some cheap drinks at a bar around here on one of the uni nights, or something?”

“Okay,” Ian agreed quickly. He loved the idea of Mickey hanging out with his friends. It was the kind of _normal_ activity he really wanted to share with Mickey this time around. Last time they were together, Mickey had never ventured much further than The Alibi. There had rarely been enough downtime in their lives to do the kind of things that normal couples did. But their lives were different now. Mickey was different. Ian hoped they could do normal things together now everything wasn't constantly falling to shit around them. “I’ll invite my friend Mandy, too. She’s Mickey’s sister. You’d like her.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jez said, starting the process of refilling the coffee bean dispensers with the supplies they had brought back from the storeroom. 

“Can I take lunch soon?” Ian asked, as he started unloading the dishwasher. It was not his favourite activity at work, being one of the only tasks at the cafe that reminded him of the diner. If he could take his lunch break a little earlier, and leave the dishwasher for someone else, all the better.

Jez looked at the clock on the wall. “Can you give me twenty minutes and we can go down the park?”

“Oh,” Ian replied, remembering he had something to do that lunch break. “I'm meeting Mandy and we're going to look at some apartments.”

“Right,” Jez nodded. “Cool. Take lunch anytime from now.”

“Thanks.” Ian began untying his apron and turned to hang it on the hooks behind the counter. 

“Hey Ian.” 

The hairs on the back of Ian's neck stood on end when he heard his name. The voice was familiar. He turned around to see Nate standing at the counter, stuffing coins back in his wallet. _Shit_. Nate was the last person Ian wanted to see. Still, considering how close his ex-boyfriend lived to the cafe, he was probably lucky that this was the first time they had seen each other since the breakup. 

“Oh. Hi,” Ian replied flatly, without emotion.

“Just waiting for coffee.” Nate looked him up and down. “So you took the job, huh?”

The colour rose in Ian's cheeks again, embarrassed for a different reason this time. “Um yeah,” he muttered. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Nate shrugged and Ian thought he seemed less chipper than his usual self. “No problem. You look good,” he said, smiling weakly. “How have you been?”

Ian sighed quietly and said a silent prayer for the floor to swallow him alive rather than having to continue this conversation. “I've been great,” he replied. Was it shitty of him to sound enthusiastic about his life without his old boyfriend? “You?”

“Oh, you know. Not bad,” Nate shrugged, shifting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. He looked sheepishly at the floor and then back at Ian. “Umm.. honestly? I've missed you, Ian.”

“Right,” Ian nodded as the hairs all over his body stood on end. This was awkward. “Well I really need to get back-.”

“Is that a bruise on your face?”

Oh, _that_. Ian’s hand moved subconsciously to his jaw where the bruise he'd received from the frat boy had faded to a sickly yellow shade. He'd forgotten it was there. “It's nothing,” he said dismissively.

“So everything is great, huh?”

Ian sighed. He was done with this conversation, “Yes. Everything is great,” he repeated and began busying himself by tidying the already tidy counter. “I really gotta… um.. get back to.. work.”

Nate looked at Ian as though he was about to say something, but decided against it. He eventually nodded, backing away from the counter to wait for his order. “Okay. Well it was nice seeing you.”

Ian nodded absently and turned his back to the cafe and his ex-boyfriend. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Jez was facing him, tucking a tea towel into the pocket of her apron and smirking. 

“So.. who was _that_?” She asked, her voice lowered and a cheeky smile dancing across her lips.

“Quite literally no one,” Ian muttered quietly, shaking his head. The disbelieving look on Jez’s face did not go unnoticed. Ian sighed, stealing a look towards Nate who was waiting for his coffee at one of the benches. “It was my ex, okay?”

“Oh, another one?” Jez giggled. 

Ian ran his hands through his hair. “While Mickey was...” he stumbled his words. Mickeys time in prison was not Ian's story to tell. “While we were broken up.”

“Well you've just got them lining up, don't you?” she joked, sinking a playful punch into the top of Ian’s arm.

Ian shook his head and screwed his nose up in protest. “No. Look.. we’re done. Completely.” He pulled out his phone and started typing a text to Mandy to let her know that he was taking lunch and was on his way to meet her at her diner.

Ian heard the door to the cafe opening again and Jez snorting a laugh. “And.. here comes another one,” she giggled, sinking an elbow into Ian’s side.

What the fuck? Ian frowned in confusion and looked up from his phone as Mickey swaggered towards the counter. “Mick,” he exclaimed, feeling his face breaking out in a smile. His smile was short-lived as he remembered Nate waiting for his coffee near the window and his grin made way for goose bumps over his entire body. This could get awkward.

“Gallagher,” Mickey greeted him. “You comin’?”

“Huh?” Ian stammered. “What? Where?”

“House hunting or whatever the fuck you were doin’ with Mands,” Mickey shrugged. “She's in the van. I'm drivin.’”

“Oh,” Ian nodded slowly. He didn't know how Mickey had ended up being invited. “Yeah, right.”

“Come on, man,” Mickey groused impatiently, nodding towards the street. “Ain’t got all day.”

Ian said goodbye to Jez and patted his pocket to make sure he had his wallet, before joining Mickey on the other side of the counter. Ian's skin erupted in goosebumps as he felt Mickey’s hand brush against his lower back. They were most definitely in public and Mickey was willingly touching him, if only just a little bit. Ian looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Nate watching them, his eyes darting back and forth between Mickey and Ian. 

“Bye, Ian,” his ex-boyfriend called out from across the floor as they walked towards the front door. “I’ll text you sometime.”

Mickey snorted, shooting an angry look in the direction of the voice and sank his teeth into his bottom lip. 

Ian flashed a withering glance at his ex-boyfriend. _He’ll text me._ What the fuck? How on earth was that Nate’s take away from their conversation? Ian fixed his gaze to the floor as he and Mickey left the cafe.

“Who the fuck was that?” Mickey asked, as he lead Ian down the street towards where he had parked the van. He fumbled around in his pocket for a cigarette.

Ian sighed, groaning internally. “That.. that was umm.. that was Nate.”

“Ahh, Nate,” Mickey repeated sarcastically. If there had ever been a more irritating name, Mickey sure as fuck had never heard it. He was suddenly and completely filled with the desire to turn around and punch _Nate_ in the fucking face. “The ex-boyfriend.”

“Yeah..”

“Still friends with him, huh?” Mickey said accusingly, the jealousy roiling in the pit of his stomach adding more heat to his voice than he had intended.

“What?” Ian shook his head. “ _No._ I have no fucking idea why he said that.”

“He bothering you at work?” Mickey asked, unsure of the answer he was hoping to hear. If no, then Mickey had one less thing to take care of. Otherwise, he had a damn good excuse to kick Nate’s arse, which sounded like a fun time if he was going to be completely fucking honest.

“No. This is the first time I've seen him since-.”

“Cos I can always stop by and rough him up a bit, if he's giving you a hard time sipping on his fucking latte,” Mickey interrupted. He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles out of habit.

Ian sighed and rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Will you fucking stop it? No one is having their arse kicked, Mick.” 

Mickey huffed and threw his barely-smoked cigarette onto the ground in an act of pointless defiance. “Didn't know that was your type, Gallagher.”

“What's that?”

“A fuckin’ pretty boy,” Mickey snarled with a reluctant laugh, pulling the keys from his pocket and unlocking the van remotely as they approached.

“Not as pretty as you, Mick,” Ian said with a smirk.

Mickey hid his smile as Ian's words turned the jealousy in his stomach into a warm pleasantness that washed over him. “Fuck off,” he drawled.

* * *

One hour, five apartments, and four cockroach infestations later, the three of them had made it to the end of Mandy’s list of rental properties and were standing outside the last apartment, waiting for the property agent to arrive. Their last property was a two bedroom apartment, on the northernmost edge of the southside and the only one the two of them would be able to afford without making major lifestyle changes.

“Looks like crap inside. Let’s just go,” Mickey grumbled, peering into the cracked front windows. “Waste of fucking time.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Why exactly are you here?”

“Fuck me for caring where my sister moves to, Ian,” Mickey snapped back with a huff. 

“Oh, please,” Mandy scoffed, shoving Mickey in the shoulder. “This isn't about me.”

Mickey reciprocated with a softer, more playful punch to Mandy’s shoulder. “Fuck you, bitch,” he laughed. “I fucking care, alright. Don't want you slumming it in a shitty neighbourhood when I'm not around to protect your skinny arse.”

Ian smirked at Mickey’s tirade. “We already slum it in a shitty neighbourhood.” 

“In a house that's armed to the fucking teeth, man,” he replied, reaching a hand and rubbing the back of Ian’s neck affectionately.

Ian closed his eyes, almost involuntarily, leaning in to the brief contact. “Houses don't have teeth, Mick.”

“What’s that, smartarse?” Mickey laughed, his affection turned playful as he lunged towards Ian, his hands going straight for Ian’s ribs. 

Ian dodged Mickey’s attack with a loud shriek and captured Mickey’s hands roughly in his own, their arms in a lock. Ian smirked down at Mickey, green eyes staring into blue, his arms relaxing their pressure against Mickey’s. 

Mickey licked his lips as he took a step towards Ian. “That smart mouth of yours,” he growled, pulling Ian towards him. Mickey found himself swimming in the features of Ian's face. God he had missed that fucking face; the flecks in his green eyes, the freckles across his nose, the way his jaw was slightly lopsided. He couldn’t imagine ever getting sick of looking at it.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Mandy groaned, snapping the two of them from their reverie. “Enough with the fucking foreplay. Go somewhere and fuck or some shit, so we can concentrate on what we came here to do.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, kissing Ian on the temple. He liked that idea. Probably the best idea Mandy had ever fucking had. 

“Maybe we could-,” Ian said quietly against Mickey’s lips.

“Too late!” Mandy exclaimed, gleefully interrupting her brother and her best friend. “Here she is!” 

* * *

“You don’t want to live here, man. It’s worse than either of our houses,” Mickey scoffed, as he and Ian walked on their own through one of the bedrooms. They’d left Mandy to fend for herself with the property manager who was giving her the hard sell, with annoying, meaningless real estate words like “north-facing aspect” and “cosmopolitan lifestyle.” It was all fucking bullshit, if you asked Mickey. The truth was it was a shitty apartment in a shitty neighbourhood, with mould creeping up every wall, two El’s from his own place and there was no fucking way he was going to let him or his sister live there. “Don’t want Mands living in this pile of shit,” he muttered.

Ian hummed. “Maybe we could try looking at three bedroom places and advertise for a roommate? A better neighbourhood?” he mused, half to himself, refusing to give in to Mickey’s negativity.

“Makes fuckin’ sense,” Mickey snorted derisively. He walked over to the wardrobe and pulled open the door, laughing as the doorknob fell off in his hand. He threw the knob carelessly onto the floor. “Why have two people barely able to afford fucking rent when you could have three?”

Ian bit down on his bottom lip, trying to ignore the annoyance rising in his stomach. “This bedroom is definitely the biggest,” he shrugged, ignoring Mickey. Mickey had been like this all day. Constantly moaning, complaining about every minute detail. Ian stared out the window at the rooftops of the unfamiliar neighbourhood. He could probably see himself living here. With Mands. They could remove the mould; he’d helped Fiona do that back home enough times. The place was small, but it would be closer to work, and he’d have his own room. It wasn’t perfect, but it definitely ticked some boxes. But as much as he tried, Ian just couldn’t muster any excitement about moving anymore. Not in the way he had when he’d first suggested it to Mandy. Things had been different then. Now Mickey and him were maybe, sort of, kinda _together,_ and moving away from him felt like a step backwards. “It really isn’t so bad, Mick,” he added, half-heartedly.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey teased, a grin creeping across his face. He moved next to Ian, sliding a hand underneath the back of his tshirt, his fingers teasing at the waistband of Ian’s jeans. “Rising damp really do it for you, firecrotch?”

Ian smirked, turning around so they were face to face. Mickey pushed him against the wall. 

“If this was my room, you’d be spending a lot of time in it, Mick,” Ian smirked. “You should really show more of an interest.”

“This shithole apartment really gets you going, huh?” Mickey growled against Ian’s neck, his fingers sliding around the front of Ian’s jeans, teasing. 

“Seems like you're the one getting turned on by this shit,” Ian said with a shaky exhale, trying to trying to quell the effect Mickey was having on him, determined not to give in to what Ian was sure was subterfuge on Mickey’s part. 

Mickey moved his hand lower to Ian’s crotch palming palmed at the swell under his jeans. He hissed as his stomach twisted and his own dick twitched in response. “Is that right?” he teased, licking his lips and watching as Ian's eyes followed the movements of his tongue. He rubbed his hand against Ian, the solid heat radiating through the fabric to his hand. 

Ian swallowed heavily, feeling himself lose the battle between his brain and his dick. “Anyone would think you were trying to sabotage our apartment hunting, Mick.”

Mickey smirked, leaning forward and pressing his lips against the pulse in Ian's neck. “You know what it is I'm doing,” he growled, his breath against the soft skin of Ian’s neck. He wasn’t trying to sabotage anything; he was just bored and fucking horny. Mickey unzipped Ian’s jeans and slid his hand inside Ian’s boxers, touching him. He closed his eyes and sighed, savouring the feel of Ian in his hand, warm and thick and wanting. God, he would never get sick of that feeling.

Ian exhaled slowly, eyelids fluttering closed. “You want me to move into your place, instead? Is that it?”

The skin of the back of Mickey’s neck bristled, and he froze, his hand stalled in position around Ian. The visceral reaction to Ian's words took him by surprise. _No_. No, he didn’t want that. Not yet. Fuck, they only been back together a few weeks. They hadn’t been on a date since the hotel, or even fucked yet, which was a feat in itself. Of course he wanted to spend all his fucking time with Ian, and spend all his time _fucking_ him, but Ian moving in straight away felt too much like last time, when Mickey had let himself be happy for the first time in his entire fucking life and everything between them had gone to shit in fifty different ways. They were actually boyfriends now, their lives were relatively free of chaos and Mickey was enjoying it. He just didn't want Ian moving fucking miles away with his sister. 

“You don’t want me to, it’s okay. I get it,” Ian said, his voice thick and breathy.

Ian’s voice broke Mickey from the unpleasant reverie inside his head and he bit at the inside of his lip in frustration. Mickey hummed pressing his lips against Ian’s collarbone, his neck, sucking at the dip in the flesh between his neck and shoulders. Ian’s soft skin against his lips, his hand resuming its work on Ian’s erection; long and languid strokes that drew ragged pants and groans from Ian with each movement. That sound. Ian sounded so good, beautiful. 

“Fuck, Mickey…” Ian rasped. “It feels…. fuck.”

Mickey closed his eyes, mouth watering, as he imagining the sight of it, of Ian in his hand, how it would feel with Ian inside his mouth, inside him, heavy and solid; completing him. He rubbed his thumb over the Ian’s slit, spreading precum over the smooth, swollen tip, laughing breathlessly as Ian groaned his response. 

“We can't do this here,” Ian rapsed in weak protest, his hands roaming down to the curve of Mickey’s ass cheeks in spite of himself. 

“The fuck we can’t,” Mickey groaned against Ian’s lips, elbowing the bedroom door shut and flicking the lock with his free hand. He pressed Ian harder against the wall, his hips rolling automatically, on instinct, against the top of Ian’s thigh, desperate for any kind of relief. His lips found Ian’s and Mickey kissed him, fucking Ian’s mouth with his tongue, sucking at his lips, the delicious sounds of their wet lips working together and Ian’s ragged breathing filled his ears.

Ian exhaled as a whimper as Mickey began stroking him faster and faster. “Fuck.. Mickey… I'm not gonna last...”

Mickey hummed, Ian’s words twisting beautifully in his gut. He wasn’t going to last either if this kept up. Jesus christ, he really wanted to be fucked. He needed Ian to fuck him. It had been a while. Months. But he didn’t really want his first decent fuck in over two years to happen in this rat’s nest of an apartment. He returned his lips to Ian’s, their kiss becoming sloppy and breathless as they both grew closer to the edge. 

“We gotta.. I can't..” Ian pulled away from Mickey’s mouth long enough to fail in his attempt at a coherent sentence. “Can't go back to work.. with.. wet..”

Mickey panted breathlessly, his eyes briefly locking against Ian’s and a knowing smirk forming on his swollen, pink lips. He dropped to his knees, pulling Ian’s jeans and boxers down with him. Mickey exhaled a shaky breath, his tongue sliding quickly over his lips, wetting them in anticipation. He took Ian in his mouth, tasting the salty precum, feeling the vein on Ian’s dick pulsing against his tongue. Fucking jesus, he loved doing this. He loved sucking dick. Ian’s dick. He looked up at Ian one last time, before sliding his lips towards the base, taking Ian in as far as he could and making up the difference with his thumb and forefingers. 

“Oh… god,” Ian moaned, as he began thrusting into Mickey's mouth, his hands moving instinctively to grab at Mickey’s hair. “Mickey.. fuck.. “

Ian’s hands were in Mickey’s hair, pressure against his head, guiding his mouth in a way that was somehow both forceful and languid at the same time. Mickey fucking loved that, loved it when Ian held his head there, showing Mickey how he liked it, how he wanted to fuck Mickey’s mouth. He moaned in pleasure around Ian, the sound of Ian's desperate, breathless panting almost too much. His own was dick was aching, swollen, heavy and untouched. He unzipped his own jeans and slid his hand down into his boxers, stroking, gifting himself some much needed relief. Finally. A deep, primal groan emanated from his own throat, vibrating around Ian as he continued to thrust into Mickey’s mouth.

“So good,” Ian gasped, his breath catching in his throat. “So good at that.”

“Mmm,” Mickey nodded, dipping his head and sliding Ian down his throat as far as he could, his cheeks hollowing as he he tried to draw his orgasm out of him. He increased the speed of his own strokes. Jesus, he felt fucking fantastic. Ian’s dick, hard and heavy in his mouth, jerking himself off at the same time. 

“Ahhh,” Ian mewled, panting, his breath shaking and uneven. “God, Mick…”

Ian’s thighs stuttered and twitched around Mickey; Ian was close and he wouldn’t be far behind. Mickey stroked himself harder, faster, completely immersed in Ian’s taste and the sound of his lips and tongue working Ian, the friction of his own knuckles as he stroked himself. Mickey was gone, completely given over to pleasuring Ian and himself.

Neither of them heard the door to the bedroom when it was flung open. “Ian, Mick.. are you in here?” came Mandy’s voice. “Ian, I think we should take this one-.”

“Ahh, this is the master bedr-” said the property manager, before her voice, like Mandy’s, stopped mid sentence.

Ian let out a chortled shriek as the realisation of what was happening dawned on both of them. Mickey pulled his lips ungraciously from around Ian’s dick with a popping sound, shooting upwards immediately from his haunches, like a fucking cat, and Ian thought it was probably the quickest he had ever seen Mickey move. They both stood in the middle of the room, furiously working to stuff their erections back into their jeans.

“Okay,” the property manager said, clearing her throat. “I think we’ve all seen enough for today. I’m going to have to ask you three to leave.”

Mandy snorted, scowling at her brother and her best friend. “You are fucking animals. Actual pigs,” she sneered. “I hate both you fucking douchebags.”

Ian stared down at his feet, arms folded, trying desperately to stifle his laughter and the half smirk, half grimace that was fighting to take over his face. He’d been about five seconds from coming mercilessly down Mickey’s throat and as embarrassing as this now was, all he could really feel, all he really cared about, was his aching, swollen dick throbbing unsympathetically in his jeans. 

“The three of you have two minutes to leave this property or I will be calling the police,” the property manager threatened, her voice terse and unwavering and her words punctuated by an outstretched index finger.

Mickey wiped a sticky hand on his jeans and huffed an incredulous laugh. “Jesus fucking christ! Okay!” he exclaimed, gesticulating, palms outstretched. “Fucking calm yourself, will you?”

“Mickey.. “ Ian warned quietly. That one word; police, had him rattled. 

“Well, it ain’t our fuckin’ fault the locks in this dump don’t work!” Mickey shot back at no one in particular.

“You’re lucky I haven’t already called the police.”

“Oh fuck off,” Mickey laughed, tucking his shirt into his jeans. He was riled now. No way in hell was this bitch going to have the last laugh. “What they gonna charge us with, huh? Blow jobs in a fucking bedroom? That’s what bedrooms are for!”

“Tresspassing. Squatting,” the agent said blithely, reaching into her jacket pocket to pull out her phone. “I don’t know you. I found you here fornicating, having trespassed on private property.”

“Okay. I’m off, assholes. You’re dead to me,” Mandy said, taking in the threat and exiting the bedroom. 

“We’re going! Christ!” Mickey grabbed Ian roughly by the arm, dragging him towards the door. The agent eyed them warily and began lowering her arm to put her phone back in her pocket. 

“Yeah, you put down the phone,” Mickey sneered, as they disappeared out into the hallway. “We’re going. Goodbye. See you later. Thanks for fuckin’ nothin’.”

“Well, that was embarrassing,” Ian muttered as they walked down the steps of the apartment and back out into the street. “Can you walk a bit faster, Mickey? Please?”

Mickey snorted in indifference and continued his usual nonchalant swagger. He was in no fucking rush. Once back on the street he unlocked the van remotely and opened the door, looking back over at the apartment to see the agent staring at them, no doubt watching to make sure they left. 

“Yo slumlord!” he yelled at the woman. “What d’ya say? You gonna lease us this dump, or what?”

“MICKEY!” Ian and Mandy yelled in unison. Mickey laughed loudly as he climbed back inside the van. 

They made it two blocks down the road, before Mickey’s laughter reached critical levels and he had to pull over at the side of the road, lest he crashed the work van and got himself fired. 

“Fuck this, I’m out,” Mandy said, jumping out of the van as soon as it had idled to a stop. “I’m walking back to work. You two really fucked things up for me, you know? I never want to see either of you ever again.”

“She’s pissed,” Ian said through his laughter, as he watched Mandy stomp down the street. He’d deal with his guilt later.

“She’ll get over it,” Mickey shrugged, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Fuck that was funny, man.”

“I can’t believe that happened. We did that,“ he said, between fits of laughter. He stole a sideways glance at Mickey. “But now we’re alone.” 

Mickey smirked, knowing exactly where Ian’s thought process was headed. “When you gotta be back at work?”

“Ten minutes.”

Mickey chuckled, reaching down underneath the steering wheel to unlock the back door of the van. “Get in the back,” he said, gesturing behind him with a quick jerk of his head.

“Amongst people’s packages?” Ian laughed.

“Fuck yeah,” Mickey replied, pulling Ian towards him by his tshirt collar and kissing him. “Clock’s ticking, Gallagher.” 

* * *

Ian moaned as his orgasm rolled over him, spilling into Mickey’s hand, the hot spray from the shower washing away the evidence. Mickey licked his lips as he continued stroking Ian, riding out the rest of his orgasm in his hand. 

“Mick.. you're so good,” he breathed against Mickey’s lips. “Love being with you like this.”

Mickey’s stomach fluttered and the corners of his lips turned up in a smile. He buried his face into Ian’s neck. “Fucking missed you,” he mumbled, nuzzling his nose into the soft, wet skin. “Fuck going to work. Let's stay here today.” Mickey was reluctant to prise himself away from the warm, wet nakedness of Ian's body.

Ian groaned at the temptation. “I would love to stay here with you, Mick. But I.. can’t.. ,” he sighed, before continuing. “I can't waste my sick days. I might… you know.. _need_ them..”

Mickey bit down on his bottom lip, embarrassed. He felt careless for not thinking of that. “Ay, it's cool, man,” he said quickly, rubbing a noogie into Ian's wet hair. “We’ll hang tonight.”

Ian nodded, ghosting his fingers down the sides of Mickey’s slick, wet body. “Hey, when’s your next piss test?” he asked. “You able to have a few drinks on your birthday night?”

Mickey shuddered pleasantly against the feeling of Ian’s fingers. “Three weeks from now. It’ll be fine,” he said quietly. “But I don’t want a fuss. Birthdays ain’t a big deal around here.”

“Well you’re getting a present, whether you like it or not,” Ian teased, pressing light kisses along Mickey’s neck and collarbone.

Mickey whined, sliding a hand down Ian’s back to his ass. “Don’t need no presents, man.”

Ian laughed breathily as he kissed water droplets from Mickey’s cheeks. “Nobody _needs_ presents, Mick,” he continued.

“Whatever. Save your money.”

“Too late. It’s been bought,” Ian shot back, smirking.

Mickey hummed. He had to admit he was fucking curious. “What is it?”

“You do understand the concept of a birthday present, right? You're not supposed to know what it is,” Ian laughed.

Mickey scoffed. Fucking smartarse. “Whatever. I'll guess it.”

Ian grinned, pressing his lips to the top of Mickey’s head. He breathed in the scent of his wet, clean hair. “I can guarantee you'll never guess this.” 

“The fuck I won’t,” Mickey scoffed. “Can I eat it?”

“Nope.”

“Drink it?” Mickey suggested.

Ian hummed his disagreement. Mickey was never going to guess correctly. A little voice at the back of Ian’s mind hoped that didn’t mean he wouldn’t actually _like_ it.

“Smoke it?”

“No!” Ian laughed. “Mick, these are all shit present categories.”

Mickey hummed thoughtfully. The few presents he’d received in his twenty two years had all fit in those categories. This was intriguing. “Can I shoot it?”

Ian sighed, feigning annoyance. “I suppose you could shoot _at it_ if you really didn't like it. But that wouldn't be very nice, Mick.”

Mickey snorted. “Whatever. Not giving up or nothin’. Just not guessing anymore.”

“Of course,” Ian nodded, laughing. “You just need to tell me who you want at your party.” He grinned as he silently counted the seconds until Mickey predictably and vehemently objected.

“No! No fucking way. I’m not having a fuckin’ party,” Mickey shrieked. Fucking christ, he wasn’t ten years old. Even if he had anyone besides Ian and Mandy to invite to a party, he didn’t want any of that forced fucking socialising on his own birthday. Fuck that. “Don’t be a motherfucker, Ian.”

“Calm down,” Ian laughed. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You better fucking not,” Mickey threatened, no real heat behind his words. “I’ll be fucking pissed.”

“It’ll just be me and Mands, if she’s talking to us by then,” Ian mused. “If we’re not still _dead to her.”_

A week had passed since their failed attempt at apartment hunting and Mickey’s dubious sabotage, but Mandy still wasn’t speaking to either of them. Not verbally, anyway. She was definitely communicating, through sideways glances, slamming of doors and exaggerated huffs of annoyance - more than enough for Mickey and Ian to know they were still on her shitlist.

“If there’s booze, she’ll find it in her fucking heart to forgive us,” Mickey smirked, brushing a rogue strand of wet, red hair from in front of Ian’s eyes. His fingers were wrinkling. “We gotta get out in a sec.”

Ian nodded, sighing quietly. He was thinking about Mandy and the apartment hunting now. It was shitty of him and Mickey to do what they had done, ruining Mandy’s hopes of moving like they had. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel it was a load off his mind, now that the prospect of moving out with Mandy, away from Mickey, had been taken off the table - temporarily at least. His brain followed that thread of thought back to Mickey, and why he had been so against Ian and Mandy moving away in the first place.

“You know what I asked you in the apartment the other day?” Ian started, unable to help himself.

Mickey groaned. Yes he fucking remembered. “We really gotta talk about this now?” he muttered. “In the fucking shower?”

Ian blinked, meeting Mickey’s eyes as his fingers trailed over his chest. “Well when?”

Mickey groaned, leaning into Ian’s touch in spite of himself. “Any other fucking time, man.”

“I just.. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Mickey closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Jesus fucking christ, Ian.”

“I just need to know, Mick,” Ian started, running his fingers over Mickey’s wet ass cheeks. “Do you want me to move in here with you?”

Mickey hissed as Ian’s fingers slide between the flesh of his cheeks, teasing him. “Fuck, man,” he whined, trying to keep his composure. “Why you gotta.. look can we just.. live in the fucking now for a bit?”

“You don’t want me to,” Ian breathed, pressing light kisses against Mickey’s collarbone.

Mickey closed his eyes, struggling to compose himself, trying to maintain control of the thinking part of his brain. “Listen,” he started. “ _I_ don’t even wanna fucking live here. You don’t wanna live here.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want me to live here,” Ian started, pouting, his green eyes boring into Mickey’s blue.

“I wanna live with you.. in the future. Just.. not yet,” Mickey shut his eyes, grimacing, not wanting to see the look on Ian’s face right now. “You don’t want it either, you just think you fucking do because the idea popped into your head and you’ve made it your new fucking relationship goal.”

“No it’s not that..” Ian shook his head, taking a small step away from Mickey.

“We ain’t been back together long, aight,” Mickey said quietly, cupping a hand to the side of Ian’s face. “Let’s just enjoy.. this.”

Ian sighed, setting his chin in defiance.

“You know how I feel about ya. Ain’t nothin’ to worry about,” Mickey said, lightly patting the side of Ian’s face. “Let’s just be chill for a while. Relax and fucking trust me on this.” He was working on a plan- a plan to get them all out of this fucking house, but it was complicated and it was going to take time. Ian didn’t need to know about any of it just yet.

Ian again, swallowing heavily, “Okay.”

The water pipes in the Milkovich house made a groaning sound, a clunk, a thud, and then suddenly Ian and Mickey were being sprayed mercilessly with ice, cold water.

“FUCKING FUCK!” Mickey yelled, leaping away from the cold spray that was needling at his skin. “Hot water’s out… get out!”

Ian howled with laughter, slamming the tap mixers against the wall, turning the shower off. He ripped the shower curtain back, jumping out, searching desperately for a towel. “Mandy and Svet are going to fucking kill us,” he grinned.

Mickey laughed, wrapping a towel around himself and grabbing up the last remaining towel before Ian had the chance. He twisted the fabric to make a whip and started flicking it at Ian’s ass cheeks.

“You’re an asshole!” Ian shrieked. “Such a prick!”

“You love it,” Mickey grinned, chasing Ian into a corner. “Stop pretending you don’t love it.”

Ian smirked as Mickey backed him further into the corner and kissed him. They were both going to be late for work.

* * *

“Fuck you, Ian!” Mandy threw her head back and laughed maniacally. “You fucking deserve all this and more!”

Ian threw the wii controller down down on the coffee table in front of him, in a melodramatic display, as Mandy’s MarioKart character slammed into him, stalling them both right at the finish line.

“You would sabotage yourself, just to punish me?” he grinned, settling back on the couch and nudging his best friend with his shoulder.

“I would, yeah,” she stated, matter-of-fact. She nodded in the direction of the wii, “I know how seriously you take this shit.”

Ian sighed, feeling guilty all over again. “I am sorry, Mands. Mickey is too. We’re both sorry.”

“I believe _you’re_ sorry, Ian,” Mandy huffed a humourless laugh. “Don’t bother trying to convince me my brother gives a shit.”

Ian bit his lip. “He is.. I mean, he does,” he said, stammering. “He does give a shit.”

“About the only thing he’s sorry about, is he didn’t get to finish jerking it while your dick was in his mouth.”

Ian groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. He wanted somebody to shoot him, put him out of his misery.

“Can’t unsee that shit, Ian.”

“I know.”

Mandy shook her head and shrugged, before changing the topic. “Where is he tonight, anyway?” she asked, looking at the time on her phone. “Thought he’d be home by now.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian nodded, remembering. “He texted me before.. said he was having some drinks with work friends. I dunno. He’ll be late.”

Mandy giggled. “Awww, are you gonna wait up for him?” she asked, her voice lilting and mocking, as she playfully rubbed at Ian’s knee. “Make sure your baby arrives home safe?”

Ian snorted, shaking his head, silently pleased that Mandy had cooled down enough to find it within herself to make fun of him. “No, I’m just here hanging out with my best friend. Truce?”

Mandy sighed, forming a fist with her hand. “Truce,” she repeated back to Ian. “Bump it.”

* * *

Mickey stood up from his table at the bar, suddenly feeling all kinds of fucking drunk. Work drinks. He, Mickey Milkovich, had just endured _work drinks_. That was his life now, it was a thing he did. He had crossed the line from begrudging employee, to semi-sociable colleague of the gainfully employed. Apparently, he socialised with people he worked with outside of work hours now, just because. Pretended to like them, acted like he cared about their lives and shit.

Truthfully, he had only gone because Tom had ambushed him before he’d made it out the door of the depot and he couldn’t think of a good reason not to. And then he’d remembered his parole officer and how it would probably charm the guy’s fucking pants off if he could tell him he went to a work function and he had worked on _building new relationships_ or whatever the fuck. If it kept Mickey out of prison, got his PO off his back, then it was worth it. Mickey would just leave out the part where he drank five beers and then started hitting the tequila shots with Tom, after everyone else had gone home.

“I’m fucked, man,” Mickey drawled, leaning up against the table for balance. Laying off the booze for a few weeks had returned him to somewhat of a fucking lightweight. 

Tom nodded. “Let’s get out of here,” he slurred. “Get on a fucking El.”

Mickey groaned. The El was slow and he wanted to get home to Ian. He missed Ian, wanted to cuddle with him and shit. “Let’s get an Uber.” He patted his back pocket, checking on his phone and wallet and exited the bar, Tom following closely behind.

“We might puke though,” Tom shook his head. “Puke on the El and some other asshole will have to deal with it.” 

“Fuck, yeah,” Mickey exclaimed, slapping Tom on the back. “Good thinkin’ kid.” 

They staggered slowly and drunkenly to the closest El station, using each other for balance. Mickey was surprised, it really hadn’t been a bad night. He’d been able to avoid small talk for the most part, instead chiming in to conversations with sarcastic and witty remarks whenever they occurred to him, which if he was honest, was quite often. He tried to think of the last time he’d hung out with people with actual jobs and shit. Maybe at The Alibi and that fucking Northside fag party Ian had dragged him along to, but that hadn’t been fun so it hardly counted. No, tonight seemed like another first.

“So, Mickey,” Tom said as they crossed at an intersection. “I gotta ask. Are you related to the infamous Milkovich family? Canaryville crime family? You know them?”

Mickey grinned almost howling with laughter. ”Do I fucking know them?” he exclaimed. “I _am_ them! I mean.. yes. That’s me, my brothers and my old man.”

Tom huffed, an incredulously sounding laugh. “Really. Wow. Sorry, I shouldn’t have.. I didn’t expect..”

Mickey shrugged. “Ay, don’t worry about it. Whatever you’ve heard, it’s probably all true.”

“My mum always told us kiddies to stay away from the Milkoviches.”

“Well your mum woulda been right,” he chuckled. _Infamous._ He felt like a celebrity or some shit. “We ain’t so bad these days, with the old man in prison. We don’t got him breathing down our necks.” 

“Ahh, okay.”

“Violent fucking asshole.. prick.. motherfucker,” Mickey continued absently.

Tom nodded. “Yeah, I heard that.”

“Also!” Mickey laughed derisively. He was running at the mouth, now. Somebody needed to stop him. “Raging fucking homophobe. So, _that_ was fun for me.”

“Right.”

They continued their walk to the El in silence and Mickey immediately regretted the comment he’d made about homophobic Terry. There’s no fucking way he would have implied he was gay if he wasn’t drunk. It’s not like he gave a shit about any of that these days, and surviving fourteen months in the joint as a gay dude, had certainly put things in fucking perspective. But he still didn’t go around advertising it, because you just never knew with people. Maybe Tom would mention something at work and one of the other drivers would get it into his head that a fag bash sounded like a fun time. You just never knew. 

They made it to the El finally, and Mickey leaned up against the brick wall of the station and lit a cigarette. Tom was standing in front of him, facing him, shuffling his feet and looking like he wanted to say something.

“Mickey.. “

Mickey raised a curious eyebrow, exhaling a stream of smoke. 

“I had fun tonight,” Tom said quietly and Mickey just looked at his friend, not knowing what to say. What did he want him to say? Did he want Mickey to congratulate him or something? 

“I’m happy for ya,” Mickey laughed, furrowing his eyebrows a little. He was about to take another drag of his cigarette, when Tom took a step towards him, and suddenly there were lips pressed against Mickey’s lips. Tom’s lips. Tom’s lips against Mickey’s lips, for two, three, four seconds. Tom was kissing him. What the _fuck_?

As soon as the realisation hit him, Mickey felt himself sober up. He had gone from pretty fucking drunk to horrifyingly sober in a matter of seconds. The skin on the back of his neck stood on end and he pushed Tom away from him, violently and unsympathetically. His friend staggered backwards, swaying, drunk.

“Get the fuck off me!” Mickey shrieked.

Tom raised his palm to his forehead in horror. “Oh my god. Oh god. I’m so fucking sorry.. I thought-.”

“You fucking thought what?” Mickey yelled.

Tom shook his head, backing slowly away from Mickey. Tom looked scared and Mickey couldn’t help but feel a little sad about that. “Fuck, I dunno.. I thought you were gay? I thought I’d picked up on it. And then you said about your dad-.”

“Yeah I’m fucking gay! Don’t mean I want your tongue down my fucking throat.”

“I’m sorry. Fuck. We always seem to.. “ Tom stammered, pacing in front of Mickey. “I dunno. Well, you’re cute and-.”

Mickey snorted. This guy. This _fucking_ guy. “Just shut the fuck up.”

“Mickey-.”

Mickey threw his barely smoked cigarette onto the cement and stubbed it out with his foot. “I’m done. I’m out. Have a nice fucking night.” He stomped off back towards the road, flipping Tom off as he went.

* * *

Mickey entered the house, to find their living room silent and in complete darkness, Ian and Mandy laying on the couch, illuminated by the tv, alive with MarioKart replays. He stood in the doorway taking in the scene in front of him. Ian was stretched out on the couch, on his back, head on a cushion with Mandy splayed over the top of him. Her head was on his chest and they were both sleeping soundly. They’d quite obviously made up. Friends again. 

Mickey bit down on his lip as he thought about what had happened back at the El station with Tom. Being hit on by another dude, completely randomly, outside the confines of a gay club was definitely another fucking first and he really didn’t know what to do about it. Was he supposed to tell Ian? The kiss had lasted for at least four seconds because Mickey had been drunk and surprised, but he hadn’t reciprocated. At the same time, he hadn’t hated it either. It’s not like he _wanted_ to kiss Tom, it just hadn’t repulsed him, is all. He was with Ian, really, truly _with Ian_ , so was a kiss from another dude _supposed_ to repulse him? He didn’t fucking know. He’d pushed Tom away like he had, because of Ian. Because he didn’t want some other guy’s lips on his when he had Ian. That was the right thing to do. Maybe he overreacted, but it was the right thing to do. 

Mickey shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He hadn’t done anything wrong tonight, he fucking knew that. It wouldn’t happen again, because he’d put the fear of god into Tom, so he couldn’t see any point in telling Ian. 

“Hey asshole,” Mandy’s voice snapped Mickey back to reality. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, lost in his own head.

“Yeah, hi bitch,” he muttered, he nodded towards Ian, “he taken his pills?”

Mandy sat up, carefully, trying not to wake Ian. Her hair was mussed up and she was rubbing groggily at her eyes. “I…think so. I don’t know?”

“Fucking christ,” Mickey hissed, frowning at his sister. “How the fuck can you not know?”

Mandy groaned and rolled her eyes. “Because I’m his friend, not his babysitter and he’s an adult who can look out for himself,” she hissed back, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mickey sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he acquiesced. Mandy was right. Ian could look out for himself and Mickey needed to let him. It was just hard; it was hard not to worry about him all the fucking time.

“Want me to wake him?” 

Mickey licked his bottom lip, looking over at Ian’s peaceful, sleeping face, and thinking about the night he’d had, Tom’s kiss. “Nah..” he eventually decided. “Let him sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, thanks for reading if you made it this far.. next chapter is Mickey's birthday. And you know I will treat our boy right and give him nice things.


End file.
